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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27533566">Crown Witness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/pseuds/slytherco'>slytherco</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Fingering, Art, Auror Corruption, Auror Harry Potter, Bars and Pubs, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Bodyguard Harry Potter, Corruption, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Duelling, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Face Punching, Face-Fucking, Fanart, Forced Proximity, Frottage, Gun Violence, Guns, H/D Erised 2020, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healing, Hiding vulnerabilities with audacious displays of confidence and sluttiness, Hotel Sex, Hung Harry Potter, Illustrations, M/M, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Masturbation in Shower, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Mirror Sex, Mobster Draco Malfoy, Murder, Organized Crime, POV Harry Potter, Past Drug Use, Police Brutality, Political Intrigue, Possessive Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Protective Custody, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Serious Injuries, Switching, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, Wandless Magic, Witness Draco Malfoy, mafia, magic kink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 07:00:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>70,323</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27533566</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/pseuds/slytherco</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, wizarding society is oppressed by a new kind of plague—an organised crime group calling itself the Family. </p><p>When Harry Potter goes to interrogate a potential witness, he doesn’t expect to end up on the run again, trying to keep Draco Malfoy alive, while a manhunt follows in their footsteps, adamant on eliminating the one witness that could ruin everything. </p><p>In which Harry and Draco learn that the way to each other might just have to go through the dingiest hotels in Britain.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>243</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>891</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>H/D Erised 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The idea for this fic has existed at the back of my mind for quite some time and I’m overjoyed and proud to be able to share this story.</p><p>It wouldn’t be possible without my beta who wrestled this story on all fronts and helped me in so many ways, this never would have happened without her.</p><p>Another huge thank you goes to my support-cheerleading squad, who believed I could do it to the very, very end.</p><p>And to M., my art guru, for giving me the loveliest feedback and drawing advice I could ever hope for.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Expensive dress shoes clack sharply on polished stone as a slim, tall man strides across the Ministry Atrium.</p><p>The morning rush has barely started—crowds of witches and wizards only just beginning to grow in numbers as cracks of Apparition echo through the hall and people rush out of the Floos, hastily dusting off their coats and jackets. There’s a sizable queue to the sandwich stand, nearly as long as the one to the coffee machine. The stranger doesn’t pause at either, nor does he carry anything with him, save for an intimidating mien he seems to radiate as he walks.</p><p>He meanders between passersby with the graceful dexterity of someone who knows how to blend into a crowd while still managing to turn heads when he passes. There is not a single crease in the bespoke, black Gucci suit he’s wearing and his silver tie pin gleams with a tiny, discreet emerald—just simple enough to exude good taste without an arriviste-like air of entitlement. He wears the ensemble like a second skin, moving with a lazy, efficient agility that people are either lucky to be born with or master by suffering through years of self-inflicted social ordeals amongst crows fighting for every measly scrap of prestige they can find. In his case, it’s definitely the former, and it is as clear as the enticing glint of light reflecting off his sunglasses.</p><p>If any of the witches and wizards rushing chaotically around the building had ever bothered to learn about the non-magical world, they would have realised the dashing stranger is wearing the material equivalent of three months’ worth of their salary. But even those ignorant of Muggle fashion houses can’t help but cast a furtive glance at the man’s lissome form, and some look around in confusion as the heady smell of quality cologne reaches their nose seconds after he has passed. Most, however, just get out of his way on instinct, only half-aware of the raw, alluring power he seems to carry as naturally as he breathes.</p><p>None of the Ministry staff or visitors are observant enough to see past the man’s impeccable veneer. Nobody can see the tight knit of his shoulders, the way he keeps himself string-taut, the tense jut of his jaw, twitching slightly every few minutes. Nobody can hear that his steps are just a tad too loud, a little too stiff to be natural. His left hand is imperceptibly tenser than the right, an unimportant detail that could be attributed to a past injury—even a seasoned Auror might have been a second too late to notice there’s a ten-inch hawthorn wand artfully concealed in an intricate holster inside his sleeve.</p><p>Not slowing his steps, he takes off his sunglasses and puts them in his pocket. Piercing, silver eyes sweep around the Atrium, following a group of Aurors heading to a late lunch break; he quickly eyes the Floos, the guest exits, and all three Apparition points, memorising their exact location—cold, calculating and vigilant.</p><p>Nobody questions his behaviour, though, as he slowly walks up to the reception desk where a bored witch sifts through the latest edition of <i>Witch Weekly</i>—for a fraction of a second, he peeks at the open magazine where a picture of none other than Harry Potter takes up the whole two-page spread. The Saviour still manages to look slightly uncomfortable in the moving photograph, smiling weakly as the interview title slapped across the page suggests yet another charity the man apparently can’t help but support.</p><p>The man’s features remain predatorily calm as the woman immediately looks up without him even having to clear his throat. He speaks a few quiet words and watches the receptionist hurriedly stamp a visitor’s badge and hold it out to him. Seeing his arched brow, her smile wanes and the woman simply places it onto the mahogany desk, clearly having changed her mind. Gracing her with a polite nod, the man swipes it off and leaves without another word.</p><p>Aside from that single instance, he doesn’t speak with anyone else but still effortlessly maintains the impression of someone with a natural posh drawl, quick as lightning and sharp as a needle, had he chosen to say something. If anyone watched him closely, perhaps they would catch him casting a quick glance at a young male intern bending down to pick up some papers scattered across the floor, where he dropped them after colliding with an angry-looking solicitor. Perhaps they would even notice a barely-there smirk, quickly replaced by stony, determined indifference as he proceeds to the elevators, looking at the guest badge with slight disdain as he slides it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.</p><p>Nobody on Level Two turns to look when the lift’s bell chimes and the stranger emerges, immediately drowning in a sea of crimson uniforms. His nose scrunches in distaste as he bumps shoulders with a few Aurors, surrounded by the smell of cheap coffee and the dusty, papery scent of every old office he’s ever been in. Looking straight ahead, he slowly advances down the hall, passing a row of doors to the smaller offices, each step measured and deliberate, like a cat circling its prey. His eyes jump to one of the doors and the plaque beside it—for just a fraction of a second, the only crack in his stone-cold resolve he will allow before reaching the door to the bullpen at the end of the hall.</p><p>He doesn’t look at his reflection in the glass as his pale, lithe fingers wrap around the handle and twist it.</p><p>His entrance is anything but grand—not a single Auror looks up from their desk, not a single quill stops over parchment between one letter and the next, hastily folded memos fail to cease their erratic fluttering in pursuit of their recipients. Suppressing the instinct to roll his eyes, the stranger takes a look around, inspecting the room. There was no need for a Notice-Me-Not after all—they’ve all been busy lately, no doubt, and he knows exactly why.</p><p>If someone took a closer look at his face, they would perhaps pause, their gaze lingering on his sharp, statuesque features, not quite able to name the unsettling familiarity they evoked. If some of the younger men and women looked up from their piles of paperwork, perhaps they would even know the man’s name, as soon as they registered the pale blond of his hair and the pointy jut of his cheekbones.</p><p>Deep down, he wants to snap his fingers in front of all their faces and revel in watching astonishment give way to realisation. He wants to swipe the irrelevant papers and poorly-written reports off their cluttered desks, resentful of their negligence, the infuriating lack of vigilance from the ones who so arrogantly call themselves <i>London’s finest</i>.</p><p>He stretches his wrist inside the holster, stiff from holding it on alert, ready to cast. He doubts it will come to that—still, if he were to gamble, he’d much rather do it in Monte Carlo, with a tumbler of whisky in his hand and some playful young thing in his lap, than here, in the Department for Magical Law Enforcement.</p><p>An older Auror walks out of a frosted glass door with a ‘Head Auror’ sign, carrying a specific air of authority that immediately feels imposed rather than earned. The corner of the stranger’s mouth twitches imperceptibly as he stands by the entrance on the opposite side of the large room. Calm and collected, he patiently waits to be acknowledged although he is not one who likes to wait, nor has he ever gone unnoticed for so long.</p><p>He knows it’s fair to say he commands a room most of the time, especially one filled to the brim with spineless, obsequious lackeys that so devotedly search for what has walked into their den of its own volition. It’s self-awareness, not a boast—years of living the life he has fallen into have taught him to always play his cards right each time he’s dealt a hand. The only worthwhile chip in the game has his name on it and winning means he gets to keep it.</p><p>Losing is not an option.</p><p>In effect, those above him leave him be; the lesser ones know their place. The ones he deems his equals are scarce and the only one in the vicinity is nowhere to be seen, forever going against all odds and expectations.</p><p>The Head Auror finally lifts his gaze from the file he’s holding and freezes as he notices the stranger. Rheumy eyes swipe over the room so quickly it could almost be missed, a paranoid little habit that always betrayed them quicker than the offensive scarlet of their uniforms.</p><p>“Excuse me, sir?” he barks, taking two more steps. Some of his underlings look up and stare with curiosity. “Who are you? How did you get here?”</p><p>The stranger looks up as the morning sunlight reveals a pair of cold, piercing grey eyes, without a single twitch across his brow despite the harsh light. His pale face stands out in the room like a perfectly chiselled stone mask when he speaks.</p><p>“My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy and I would like to make a statement.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I have to what?”</p><p>Harry stares at the Minister of Magic, whose dark brow tenses even more as he holds the door to his and Ron’s tiny office open. In the background, he can see Robards, pacing behind the Minister with a distressed expression, his uniform askew. It’s a rare occurrence, to see the Minister himself come to personally fetch him and subconsciously, Harry already knows what this might be about. There’s only one case—one, dreadful, mind-boggling monster of a case—that would prompt the Minister of Magic himself to spring into action like this.</p><p>One look at Kingsley—the stiffness in his posture, the twitch in his jaw, the impatience in his eyes—makes Harry’s blood run cold. This has to be about the Family.</p><p>When the Family first made itself known about two years after the war, it was clear they were in it for the long run. Throughout the trials that were still ongoing at the time, Harry watched, helpless and furious, as low-rank Death Eaters were let off the hook, one by one, hearing after hearing. The bigger fish, the ones who Harry had seen kill and maim with his own eyes, didn’t manage to slip through the cracks and he had personally lent his testimony to ensure that. And yet, so many of them had slipped from Wizengamot’s seemingly iron grip. Doped up on illegal Veritaserum suppressants, claiming they were kept under <i>Imperio</i>, coerced and threatened, the bastards lied through their teeth on the stand and every single one had received the same, tired verdict: insufficient evidence. All those treacherous vermin talked about remorse and family, and <i>duty</i> in their plummy voices, going as far as to claim they were not in the country at all during the events. Some even took a disgusting advantage of Hermione’s House-Elf Free Will Act and had the terrified creatures dragged to the stand to confirm everything their masters said.</p><p><i>Politics</i>, they had said. Hermione, with a heavy, knowing sigh that should have been infuriating rather than comforting. Ron, with a little more of the acrimony Harry had felt settling into his muscles. One hand washes the other, cheques and deeds slid over polished mahogany, champagne bottles opened with a hefty pop as estates that had been seized were released to their rightful heirs one after the other.</p><p>Harry had a hard time adjusting after hearing those verdicts, knowing that justice had not been served, not entirely. Those who avoided Azkaban scattered all across Europe, most finding refuge in summer estates all along the French Riviera, and began planning and regrouping only to resurface two years later, and do so with a ghastly flourish.</p><p>Bodies had started to pile up and the Ministry was in a shambles. The wizarding world had fallen into a dormant state of relative peace—a long, well-deserved breath of fresh air everybody desperately needed after the metaphorical salt-and-burn over Voldemort’s grave. In a time of grieving, licking wounds and coming to terms with the tremendous amount of loss that had left a hollow space in so many hearts, Harry was left watching the ashes settle and trying to hold on to a reality he had never prepared to live in. It was a horrible thing to even think but when the French authorities had alerted the DMLE of a possible crime syndicate rooted under their very noses, Harry felt every muscle in his body rewire to the default state he knew so well how to handle.</p><p>The Family. <i>La Famille</i>. Or, as Ron likes to call them, ‘those slippery bastards’.</p><p>When one turns the lights on in a basement, all the cockroaches scatter to the darkest, filthiest corners, to hide under the debris, and wait. Venomous spiders hole up amongst the intricate webs they’ve been learning to spin since they first emerged into the world. All those born in the dark eventually return to the womb that has nursed them to wait out the fallout and be reborn, all freshly-adjusted to the new light.</p><p>That’s what the Death Eaters who escaped Azkaban did. They were the ones who lurked in the shadows, whispered orders, recruited fresh meat. The strategists, the planners, the ones who’d much rather dirty their hands with secrets and politics than blood and grime. Voldemort needed them for the power and influence over the uncertain ones, a tool to tip the scales with those too afraid, too undecided, but also with blood too pure and precious to be wastefully spilt.</p><p>Free to run their own operation after their deranged master’s fall from grace into a literal grave, those who were still wealthy enough after paying all the war reparations had formed a pure-blood wizarding alliance. Or, more accurately, an elite neo-Death Eater club that had quickly evolved into a carefully constructed, hierarchical crime family with its black, oily tentacles pulsing around the very guts of banks, and institutions, and even whole cities. Their goal: power. Money. Revenge.</p><p>The feeling of a certain <i>esprit de corps</i> that had once held the Sacred Twenty-Eight together, flowing crimson and ancient in their very veins, has now turned gold and heavy, resting deep underground protected by the goblins whose greed and loyalty to the coin matched their own. Watching Dumbledore’s fall, witnessing their Dark Master die at the hands of a teenage boy, seeing their brethren fall from grace and rot on an island in the middle of nowhere has taught them one thing: blood, once spilt, dries and turns into dust. Bloodlines wither, people disappear and are forever forgotten, but gold… Gold is timeless.</p><p>For years, the Ministry has been tracking them down, exhausting its resources to keep playing a frustrating game of cat and mouse. They were smarter than Voldemort’s lot—taking cruel, mindless bloodlust out of the equation has left more space for calculated risks, politics, and clever manoeuvres that required brains rather than brawn. The latter were either dead or locked up in Azkaban so the former could rise to the surface, with full vaults and a <i>carte blanche</i> at their disposal.</p><p>“Potter, we don’t have time, I’ll explain it on the way,” he says firmly, his deep voice filling the small space. “He says he will only talk to you and we both know we don’t have nearly enough evidence to keep him here against his will,” he adds, bitterly.</p><p>“What? Who?” Harry asks, already getting out of his chair and putting on his uniform jacket. Ron looks at them, blinking confusedly.</p><p>“A… man came to the bullpen this morning. Says he’s with the Family,” Kingsley says cryptically and Harry’s coffee is immediately forgotten. </p><p>Harry shakes his head.</p><p>“He must be different from the others.”</p><p>Every once in a while, someone comes to the DMLE, claiming they have information about the Family. None of those tips are ever helpful—some do it for the attention, some follow one of the many false trails the Aurors checked months before, and some try to pin it on people that have nothing to do with the Family in the first place. Those are usually stricken by grief, filled with anger and pain that cuts so deep they try to find someone, anyone, to blame for a loss they’ve experienced, for a tragedy they’re unable to cope with. Harry doesn’t blame them—he knows those feelings all too well, the utter hopelessness of searching for a reason bad things happen. It hurts even more to see some of those people on the autopsy table later on—the Family doesn’t exactly hide their line of work, but they’re very picky about responsibility, never allowing anyone to bad-mouth them for long.</p><p>“He’s not crazy, for one. We have reason to believe he has something worthwhile to say,” says Kingsley, his jaw clenched. Hary wonders what went down in the interrogation room that got him so tense. “But he will only say it to you for reasons he chose to obscure. So get moving.”</p><p>“But who—” Ron starts as Harry secures his wand and locks his desk drawer.</p><p>“Auror Weasley, this is an unusual situation but rest assured you will be informed about any developments,” Robards pipes in from behind Kingsley’s back. “After all, you are partners, and ones joined at the hip if I can say so myself,” he adds, a little impatiently.</p><p>Ron closes his mouth, eyeing both men with curiosity. Harry, in all honesty, shares the sentiment—if he didn’t know any better, he’d say it’s probably another incognito reporter or an overzealous fan with too much time on their hands and a solid Glamour to top it off. Any arrogance aside, people still manage to surprise him when it comes to devising ways to get five minutes alone with the Boy Who Lived, so much so the DMLE has had to adapt its headquarters by placing Glamour detectors by the entrance and running random Polyjuice tests to prevent the public from infesting Level Two in its entirety.</p><p>Harry cast one last look at his coffee. This had better be good.</p><p>“Let’s go.”</p><p>“After you.”</p><p>They reach the interrogation rooms across the hall of the holding cells in the western wing. A quick look at the enchanted board says all of them are empty save for one—probably some poor sod caught publicly drunk, or some petty thief who tried to nick a few potions on Diagon. If it were someone who’s big news, Harry and Ron would have known, usually getting the lead on more serious cases—any one of them could have ties to the Family these days and the Minister has personally ensured his top Aurors are well-informed at all times.</p><p>Right before Harry has the chance to push to the door to the interrogation area, Kingley’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder. “Potter.”</p><p>“Something wrong?” asks Harry, suspicion already blinking awake at the back of his mind. Both his bosses seem a little too tense for something as simple as a conversation with a potential witness. Hell, the sole fact they’re indulging this foible is something rather out of character but Harry has learned his days of questioning every authority are long behind him—scattered around Hogwarts’ shady corridors and buried amidst the Forbidden Forest’s endless thicket. He saves his natural rebelliousness for weekend Quidditch games with the Weasley clan and the occasional fling that warms his bed on the rare nights he bothers going out to pull.</p><p>Kingsley casts a quick look at Robards who’s examining his nails way too attentively to ever be believable, leaving the talking to the commander-in-chief. The Minister’s eyes darken. “You might be—” Shacklebolt clears his throat. “You might be <i>familiar</i> with the witness.”</p><p>Harry’s brow rides up despite himself. It’s rather useless to point out that Aurors get taken off cases to which they have any personal ties—a pain in the arse of a rule but a necessary one nonetheless, especially with corruption piggybacking its way in, the Ministry its <i>El Dorado</i> of opportunities.</p><p>Harry licks his lips. Nods. “Thanks for the heads up,” he says, watching for a reaction.</p><p>“Go in, get all the evidence you can,” Kingsley says, ignoring the Head Auror’s scoff, “and—”</p><p>“Control your temper,” Robards finishes gruffly.</p><p>With that peculiar advice, the three of them enter the narrow corridor leading to a small door at the end. The whole space is dimly lit by a single, dingy lamp and smells like an attic. Holding back a sneeze, Harry notices someone has clouded the enchanted one-way mirror—possibly for privacy reasons—but the silence accompanying him as he approaches the door bears something unspoken and the door handle feels just a bit colder than usual when he presses it. Kingsley and Robards stay behind and Harry wants to roll his eyes at the little show he has to put up with just to pander to the whim of some madman.</p><p>A smooth, sultry voice sets Harry on full alert as soon as the door slams behind him.</p><p>“Dear me, you’ve got rather hot.”</p><p>Harry forces his eyes to adjust to the strange lighting—it bears a reddish tinge due to all the surveillance spells hanging heavy in the air, their soft crackle so subtle, it’s only audible if one knows to look for it. It’s not quite like a darkroom, but close enough to throw Harry off. He can make out a silhouette of a man sitting in one of the metal chairs on the opposite side of the rusty table. The shackles screwed to its top are open, the old magic that once commanded them long withered—only the chains dangling to the sides and pooling around the legs still have enough juice to clatter obediently at the presence of an enlisted Auror.</p><p>Their mystery witness runs a hand through perfectly messy, platinum hair and shoots him a devious smile.</p><p>Harry’s voice sounds disembodied when he finally gasps out the name. “Malfoy.”</p><p>Malfoy barks out an arrogant laugh. “Finally, a competent Auror!” he says, smirk still plastered to his face. “Ten years have passed and you’re still as sharp as the <i>Prophet</i> says you are. <i>Bravo</i>, Potter.”</p><p>A crippling familiarity settles heavy onto Harry’s shoulders at the use of his last name. His heart is pounding for reasons too complex to dissect right now as he looks straight into the clear, quicksilver eyes that seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth right after the post-war trials. Clear of all charges, they said. With Lucius Malfoy serving life in Azkaban and subsequently dying after just three years, his wife and son were rumoured to have left Britain for good, tucked away in some mysterious corner of the world, free of gossip and speculations about their family patriarch’s swift demise. The Ministry didn’t look too much into Lucius’ death and, similarly to many of the deceased Death Eater prisoners before and after him, made a quiet affair of informing the family, scribbling ‘heart attack’ in the <i>cause of death</i> section and sealing the file deep in their archives.</p><p>That’s as far as facts went and, frankly, there wasn’t too much to go on guesswork-wise either. The press was eerily silent about the fates of the innocent members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, regardless of the reality of said innocence. Whether it was a deliberate act of defiance against the laws of the old, or whether substantial sums of Galleons still stashed in estates’ secret vaults were quietly passed on to people who were willing to put their silence on sale, it didn’t matter. The renaissance of the shady elite has still come full circle just like it always does throughout history. The Family reared its head suddenly, bearing no resemblance to Voldemort’s old methods and now, Draco Malfoy sat in front of Harry claiming he had information about them.</p><p>Malfoy. It’s always fucking Malfoy.</p><p>And Malfoy has… changed. Harry does his best to conceal the curiosity that prompts him to stare at the changes ten years have made to his once arch-nemesis; it sounds ridiculous but Harry has always remembered his time in Hogwarts quite fondly, with all the shenanigans it included. As he regards his old school rival, memories and images flash through his mind in quick succession—midnight duels, Quidditch games, sneers and insults, and then, they twist and coil, become darker—there’s a pale, famished teenager with bags under his eyes, blood in a school bathroom. The stench of smoke as the Room of Requirement burns. Finally, two slim hands clasped together, tightening their hold as the judge says ‘dismissed’. The Draco Malfoy that sits before him looks nothing like his old self, only retaining his line’s noble bone structure—not classically handsome but still captivating, like a too-expensive watch that you’d be desperate to try on, but know you couldn’t afford to buy. He’s wearing posh Muggle clothes, probably the most expensive suit Harry has ever seen, and his hair isn’t slicked back the way he used to wear it—it’s tousled in a manner people pay good money for, and still a brilliant moonlight colour that makes his eyes stand out even more.</p><p>Harry sags into the opposite chair, his back to the two-way mirror, and feels Malfoy’s gaze following his every move. He wants to grit his teeth, knowing Malfoy is probably convinced he’s the one playing the role of the hunter in this little scenario. What Malfoy doesn’t know is Harry has changed quite a lot, too.</p><p>“Welcome to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” he says calmly, folding his hands on the table. “I’m sure you remember your time here quite fondly.”</p><p>Something wild and uncontrolled flashes across Malfoy’s face and Harry savours the challenge; a thrill of excitement goes up Harry’s spine at discovering he still remembers this years-old dance. Malfoy has just swallowed the bait and if the little twitch in his jaw is anything to go on, the conversation they’re about to have will be all kinds of interesting. Harry doesn’t waste time wondering when he last felt this kind of anticipation.</p><p>Malfoy gathers his wits, quick as a whip. He raises an eyebrow, and they’re now darker than they used to be, Harry notices absently. “I see the accommodations are still abhorrent.” He takes a theatrical look around. “No wonder suicide rates are higher in law enforcement.”</p><p>His attitude drives Harry mad—his lazy-relaxed pose, his prissy, posh clothes, and that smirk. He wants to wipe it off that chiselled face. He clenches and relaxes his muscles—once, twice—taking advantage of the control he has over his body and restraining the nearly primal instinct to punch Malfoy’s lights out.</p><p>“I’m told you have something I might find interesting.”</p><p>“Oh,” Malfoy chuckles, his perfect canines flashing in a knowing grin. He licks his lips, looking straight at Harry. “I’m quite certain I do.” Harry looks back, unblinking, and doesn’t falter although the obvious innuendo throws him off-balance just the slightest bit. He brushes the distraction off before Malfoy speaks again. “On top of that, I come bearing gifts,” he says, inclining his head, eyes wandering around the room for a few seconds for dramatic effect. His demeanour is somewhat extravagant compared to how he used to be—there’s a flamboyant, playful quality to the way he carries himself, but it doesn’t detract from the underlying seriousness of someone who could stab a man in a blink of an eye. He points his sentences with peppy gestures and moves his head and shoulders around a lot, in the charming, animated way of a notorious flirt. Not too much to distract Harry from what he’s saying, just enough to let him know that the darkness lingering behind his winsome mask can twist that smile upside down whenever he chooses. It slowly dawns on Harry that Draco Malfoy is a fancy dagger in a gem-encrusted sheath—nice to play with until there’s blood on one’s hands.</p><p>There’s a pause that stretches for too long before Harry snaps. “Well?”</p><p>Malfoy deflates with a sigh, dropping the theatrics. “I was hoping we would avoid that awkward little part where I remind you I will only speak with <i>you,</i> Potter. As in, <i>just</i> you,” he says slowly, punctuating every syllable. “And no-one else.” He looks at Harry with an almost amused expression.</p><p>“Is that supposed to make me feel special?” Harry asks, tilting his head. “There’s no-one else here, Malfoy,” he gestures around the room, knowing full well the chances of Malfoy believing him have just dropped to zero.</p><p>“You Aurors really think your cunning is superior to everyone else’s,” Malfoy drawls, his upper lip stretching into a sneer, and Harry wonders whether he’s not the only one whose old habits die hard. “While you’re as insidious as dog shite in the middle of a pavement.” He waves a nonchalant hand in the general direction of the discreetly Glamoured one-way mirror behind Harry’s back. “Will you do the honours or shall I?”</p><p>All Malfoy gets in reply is an eye roll and an abrupt flick of a wrist and then, the wall behind Harry glistens and ripples, revealing a clear expanse of glass. Robards and Kingsley lurk behind it with pensive expressions, not yet aware they’ve been exposed.</p><p>Malfoy’s eyes darken at Harry’s brazen display of wandless magic. It ignites something ferocious deep down in Harry’s belly—he’s not the bragging type, usually choosing the efficiency of a wand channelling his magic over the flashy displays and the hand-waving that wandless entails. Still, he savours the faint tingling at the pads of his fingers and the smell of ozone strong enough to overpower the dull stench of rust and linoleum.</p><p>“Ah, there they are,” Malfoy says flatly, “like children, with their noses stuck to the aquarium glass.” He purses his lips at Harry. “Tell them to <i>leave</i>.”</p><p>“So eager to get me alone, Malfoy?”</p><p>A smirk. So two can play at this game after all. “It’s your lucky day.”</p><p>Harry lifts his chin and turns around to look straight at Kingsley. The Minister starts; he casts a Detection Charm with a furrowed brow that quickly goes up his forehead at the confirmation that Harry and Malfoy can indeed see them. Robards’ lips are moving and Kingsley casts him a quick glance, muttering something with his head dipped down so his mouth can't be seen. Harry looks at them intently and shrugs, slowly shaking his head. After a moment of tense deliberation, the two men reluctantly leave. Harry turns back and catches Malfoy propped up on his elbow, wiggling his fingers in a mocking wave.</p><p>“Happy now?”</p><p>“Well, I <i>could</i> use a cup of tea but then again, I wouldn’t even drink the water here,” he says with a grimace. In the next second, Harry almost jumps as Malfoy produces a wand, seemingly out of nowhere. In a blink of an eye, it’s just <i>there</i>, rolling between slender, bony fingers as Malfoy waves it in the air before Harry can stop him. It’s the same one he’s always had, hawthorn, ten inches, the Dark Lords’ bane. The same one Harry returned shortly before the trials and hasn’t felt upon his palm for the last ten years. A ridiculous notion enters his mind, whether the wand would remember him, whether he would feel a cool, misty wash of Malfoy’s magic, just like the one he felt when he first held it. That sliver of its owner’s personality was a feeling Harry has unconsciously associated with Malfoy for all these years—like a moor at dawn, like old stone after a drizzle—temperate and ominous until it reveals the secrets it holds. It’s disconcerting, to remember it so vividly still, but Harry forgets all about it when Malfoy starts muttering incantations.</p><p>His hand snaps to his right thigh, ready to cast, but all Malfoy’s spell does is manifest an array of bright, purplish lights; they float around the space, twirling and coiling into intricate curlicues, and a few here and there chime softly as they turn a vicious pink.</p><p>“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Malfoy shakes his head and slides his wand into his sleeve. Harry’s only half-aware he files the fact away, just in case. “Quite a lot of surveillance spells you’ve got there. Mind deactivating them?”</p><p>Malfoy’s lips curve in satisfaction as Harry removes the wards with a tired sigh. It shouldn’t be surprising the slimy bastard is proficient in all things shady. Harry only wonders how much of the show they’re putting on is necessary and how much Malfoy is just enjoying himself. As Harry makes quick work of the spells, Malfoy keeps talking. “Honestly, I’d like to know at which point Starsky and Hutch over there got so confused? I thought I spoke my mind very clearly since you’re here. By the way, your security here is atrocious. I could be a maniac, looking to dismember their precious Saviour and they, quite literally, brought you to me. And left! Because I asked! Should have—”</p><p>The Muggle movie reference doesn’t go over Harry’s head but he leaves it be, not wanting to set Malfoy off into another of the fruitless back-and-forths he seems to enjoy so immensely. “Wards are down, Malfoy, so get on with it. You’ve wasted enough of my time.”</p><p>“I have a concealed weapon, too, and I don’t mean the unsavoury kind.”</p><p>Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” If Malfoy was here to kill him, he would have attempted it already, seeing that his chances of getting out of here are slim no matter if they’re surveilled or not. Harry sits back and gives him a pointed look; he feels a lot of Malfoy’s bravado is based in his sharp tongue so Harry tries to kick it from under him, going for the silent, broody interrogator role. It’s an interesting exercise in restraint, seeing as Draco Malfoy has always awoken a side of him Harry has almost forgotten he possessed. And that part of him is anything but restrained.</p><p>“Are you going to say something or would you prefer a show? I’m quite adept at those,” Malfoy breaks the silence easily, with a patented, impish smile but lets it go at Harry’s impatient glare. “Right,” he says, palming absently at his chest. Harry watches as he pulls a slim, silver cigarette case out of his inner pocket. It looks like an heirloom, judging by the tarnish around the intricate floral designs in the corners, each adorned with gleaming onyx. It’s a beautiful trinket and however strange it may sound, smoking fits Malfoy—a cherry on top of the whole infuriating, decadent, audacious whirlwind of oddities that is the man before Harry. He opens the case and pulls out a tiny paper square and, after a second of deliberation, looks at the neatly lined cigarettes inside. “Do you mind?” Malfoy asks.</p><p>Harry can’t believe him. He also can’t believe himself for entertaining this for so long. “Of course I do! Malfoy, don’t push your fucking luck—”</p><p>“Fine!” Malfoy closes the case with a metallic clasp and stuffs it back into his pocket. He whips his wand out again and taps it twice on the paper square. In a matter of seconds, it expands at the corners, revealing a simple, brown paper folder. Harry sees the odd folds and parchments inside and his curiosity is now officially piqued.</p><p>Malfoy is slightly less relaxed than he was five minutes ago—his shoulders are tense as he stares at Harry, absently tapping his finger on the file. He flattens his hand on top of it and slides it across the table. “Here. I’ve been collecting this for… longer than I’d care to admit, actually.”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“It’s… everything,” he rasps. “Everything you need to put them down.” He shrugs. “Provided that you catch them.”</p><p>Harry picks up the surprisingly thick file and opens it—he leafs through the first few pages and excitement spikes along his spine at the sight of a few names he already knows peppered here and there. There are pictures, maps with ticked locations, personal files on some witches and wizards he’s never seen and a few he knows all too well. His breath quickens. “What…”</p><p>“Plans, drop sites, ledgers, contacts, a few accounts, lists of most of their accomplices with papers to prove it,” Malfoy explains, breathless. “Those bastards are everywhere. You’ve got addresses, safehouses, offshore bank accounts. Even their bloody mistresses’ phone numbers—”</p><p>“Holy shit… How did you get your hands on all this?” asks Harry, looking up from the papers, already feeling he knows the answer.</p><p>Malfoy’s jaw twitches. “I said I work with them, didn’t I?” he asks testily. “I’ve been collecting it in secret. For… years. A little personal safeguard, if things ever went south,” he says. “And they did. So I need you to take this, I need you to blow up that bloody mafia to smithereens, I—”</p><p>“You really worked with them,” Harry breathes, eyes skimming over the parchments. “And—you sat on all this—for how long?” Harry can’t stop staring at the lists of names, at all the evidence it would take the DMLE <i>years</i> to collect. Somewhere at the edges of his astonishment, he can feel anger slowly welling up to the surface, boiling and ugly right under his skin. “And what? Things got too dangerous for you so you’re selling your buddies out? Secured yourself a nice little deposit first, so now you can break the inconvenient ties and cut yourself a nice deal on the side?”</p><p>“Fuck you,” Malfoy snarls, “you have no idea what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“You disgust me,” Harry spits, “All that blood—”</p><p>“I haven’t spilt a drop!” Malfoy barks, slamming his fist on the table.</p><p>Harry doesn’t believe a word he’s saying but it’s not his job to check if anything in Malfoy’s file was worth the time. He deflates a little, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “You said things went south.”</p><p>“That’s none of your business.”</p><p>“So you want me to believe you just brought all this”—he waves the folder between them—“here out of—what?—the kindness of your heart?”</p><p>“Oh, fucking spare me—”</p><p>“Why are you giving me this now? Why <i>me</i>?” Harry asks, unable to help himself—he knows it’s not protocol, he knows there are more important questions he should be asking but nothing about Draco Malfoy and his twisted ways was ever ordinary.</p><p>“Isn’t this enough?” Malfoy asks and there’s a desperate note to his voice that makes Harry pause. “Just take it and let me go. You’ll find my file there, too, thought I’d make it easy for you,” he says with a little eye roll. “Consider it a bonus. Should be enough for that deal you mentioned, I have no intention of rotting in Azkaban.”</p><p>“Got it all planned out, have you?” Harry asks, shrinking the file again and putting it in his pocket. He can see Malfoy watching him, silver eyes coming alive.</p><p>“Quite,” Malfoy purrs, regaining some of his earlier cheek. “I’ll say whatever you need me to say, no need to be so big, bad, and broody.” He gestures vaguely in Harry’s general direction. “Although the persona is quite, ah—<i>alluring</i>.”</p><p>“How generous of you,” Harry deadpans.</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>“All right,” Harry says, solid resolve settling into his bones. He stands up, dusting off his uniform. Malfoy watches his every move, splayed out in the dingy chair as if every seat in the world was his throne to sit upon. A thrill goes up Harry’s spine at the thought of what he’s about to do—this whole affair has been rather unprecedented and the privileged little bubble they have inserted Malfoy into is about to burst. Now, they have to play by the rules of Harry’s world, at least until he reports to Kingsley and Robards and the three of them figure out what the fuck they are going to do with this. But Malfoy doesn’t need to know that. “Stand up, I’m done with you for now,” he says coldly, the tips of his fingers grazing the thigh holster he’s wearing. The worn handle of his holly wand reaches out to him with a familiar ripple of magic—it’s a strange kind of comfort, but since small reassurances have never been an abundance in his life, Harry welcomes it without question.</p><p>Malfoy tilts his head playfully, white hair falling attractively around his cheekbones. “I changed my mind, I liked you better as the Good Auror,” he says, not moving an inch.</p><p>“Well, tough shit, Malfoy,” Harry snarls, “I said, <i>stand the fuck up</i>.”</p><p>Malfoy’s expression darkens. “I don’t appreciate being pushed around,” he hisses but lifts himself off nonetheless. “Only when it’s for fun,” he adds with a smirk, not looking at Harry as he flicks invisible lint off his sleeve.</p><p>Harry ignores that last bit, blocking out any images before they have a chance to form. “You are being arrested for participating in activities of an organised crime group,” he says in a monotone voice, “You don’t have to say anything from now on but if you do, you’d better be telling the fucking truth,” he finishes, going off-script. He’s still completely in the dark as to Malfoy’s intentions—they have never been particularly trusting towards one another and Harry doesn’t see that changing anytime soon just because Malfoy had a sudden, suspicious change of heart. He pulls out his wand, not taking his eyes off the blond.</p><p>Malfoy freezes in his tracks. The momentary flash of fear in his eyes is strangely satisfying—finally, a crack in that infuriating, nonchalant facade. “Arrested?” he splutters as silver eyes dance around the room. He takes a defensive stance, like a trapped animal, and Harry refuses to feel sorry for him. He’s not sure he would feel sorry even if Malfoy’s files checked out—if he really has been working for the Family, he’s partly to blame for the fiery mess Harry’s job and life have turned into ever since the Ministry had caught wind of their operations.</p><p>All those deaths. The Jane Does found dead in dark alleys, the disappearances, illegal potions trafficking, extortion, corruption, the whole bloody trail they’ve been leaving behind all over Britain for fuck knows how long.</p><p>“Surrender your wand,” Harry says in a low voice, trying to keep any enjoyment from his tone. It might be amusing to see Malfoy squirm but he really hopes he won’t be stupid enough to try and fight him.</p><p>“Potter,” Malfoy hisses, “is the show really necessary? I came willingly, I gave you what you need—”</p><p>“Listen,” Harry grits out, feeling his patience run out. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull but you’ve just brought a huge pile of steaming <i>shit</i> in here and it’s all on my head,” he says. Malfoy makes a disgusted face. “Bloody hell,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Malfoy. I have to arrest you, it’s protocol. You’re going to stay in the holding cell while we sort it all out, check a few of those tips and… go from there.”</p><p>“We?” Malfoy asks incredulously. “Did you listen <i>at all</i> to what I just said? Are you drunk?” He pauses and slowly shakes his head. “In case you’ve sustained some long-term brain injury— I— Do you think I have asked for you <i>specifically</i> because I wanted to have a jolly little chat and a school reunion?”</p><p>“Malfoy,” Harry warns.</p><p>“I am risking <i>everything</i> by coming here,” he growls, propping himself on the metal table. The chains around the legs jangle ominously as Malfoy leans forward. “They have someone inside the Ministry,” he says urgently, “possibly in the very DMLE, and you plan to pin it to your office board next to the bloody cafeteria menu!”</p><p>“Put your wand on the table, take a step back, and turn around with your hands behind your back.”</p><p>“Potter, for fuck’s—”</p><p>“Now!”</p><p>Malfoy recoils from the table like it burned him, looking at him with that years-old fury Harry remembers so well. He takes his wand out and puts it on the table and Harry is momentarily transported ten years back as he takes a proper look at it. Without a word, he slips it into his holster right next to his own and perhaps there’s something symbolic there but Harry knows better than to ponder over it or pay any attention to that cool twirl of magic he just knew he’d feel. Instead, he sends a Patronus to the bullpen—he needs to talk to Kingsley and Robards right away and he’s done babysitting Malfoy for the time being.</p><p>Harry walks around the table and comes up behind Malfoy—it’s the closest they’ve been since he came in here and Harry now knows Malfoy smells like almonds. It’s a sweet, milky aroma and it’s so out of character, he wonders if Malfoy is aware of it at all. Harry unhooks a pair of handcuffs from his belt and gathers Malfoy’s hands behind his back, feeling him shudder at the touch of cold metal around his wrists.</p><p>“Actual handcuffs?” Malfoy snorts. “Last time, they just cast a Binding Spell.”</p><p>“Double protection,” Harry murmurs, casting the spell Malfoy mentioned, “the metal’s imbued with Slowing Charms.”</p><p>“Had a few runners, have we?”</p><p>Harry doesn’t say anything as a tiny shrike Patronus flies in, confirming two Aurors are on their way to escort their… Harry wants to say ‘guest’ but he supposes Malfoy is a detainee now, in every sense of the word. He checks the handcuffs and finds them securely locked around Malfoy’s slender wrists—if they were any slimmer, the cuffs would have fallen off. He’s never been made for prison, Harry thinks—with his fragile bones and angelic hair, and smelling like almonds—Malfoy would have ended up a canary stuffed into the darkest, grimiest box imaginable.</p><p>“Just for the record, fifteen-year-old me would have wanked himself raw at his Auror-interrogation fantasy coming true,” Malfoy chuckles, clearly unable to stop talking. Perhaps it’s nerves, an instinct to put on a brave face when he’s trapped beyond help—there’s a familiar undertone to his voice, as subtle as a whisper, one Harry had once heard laced into the words that haunted his dreams at one point in the past: <i>I can’t be sure</i>.</p><p>“Move,” Harry says, guiding him to the door by the cuffs. Outside, two young Aurors whose names Harry doesn’t remember are already waiting. They resemble Crabbe and Goyle back in their school days, from the bulky frames down to their thuggish expressions and beady eyes that would sooner fit in a gloomy back alley than in any kind of law enforcement. It’s all about balance, Harry muses.</p><p>“Senior Auror Potter,” one of them grumbles and Harry hears Malfoy stifle a snort.</p><p>“To think I had covered every bloody possibility except for one,” Malfoy says quietly, holding himself stiff as a board. “I forgot how utterly stupid and hot-headed you are.”</p><p>“Please escort mister Malfoy to a holding cell,” Harry tells the Aurors. “Standard Safety Charms, his wand was already taken. He can keep the rest of his possessions.”</p><p>“Yes sir,” the other one nods and each of them grabs Malfoy by one of his elbows. He doesn’t put up a fight, just throws Harry one last glance and it’s a warning, a plea, and a flowery <i>fuck you</i> all compressed into the darkness behind shadow-gilded silver.</p>
<hr/><p>As soon as Harry steps into the Minister’s office, Kingsley and Robards nearly jump out of their seats, clearly displeased with being told to wait in the corner like a bunch of children. The report he gives is succinct and pointed with a slam of Malfoy’s file on Kingsley’s desk.</p><p>“Robards,” Kingsley says over the scattered papers and pictures, “gather as many men as you can, we need a team on this. Briefing after lunch, we need to start checking those tips as soon as possible.”</p><p>“Yes sir,” Robards nods, turns on his heel and promptly leaves the office. Harry bats away the memory of Malfoy saying there’s a Family spy in the DMLE. He did mention it but it has gone without comment as his bosses looked over the evidence.</p><p>“Kingsley,” Harry says, squirming in his seat. “About that inside man thing—”</p><p>“Harry,” the Minister raises his hand, “I know there’s a… possibility. Merlin knows we’ve both seen stranger things happen. But we need to prioritise—shut down their operations, and limit their range as quickly as possible. People’s lives are on the line and I can’t be conducting secret investigations inside my own departments while they’re running free,” he explains with a serious expression.</p><p>Harry lets out a long, strained breath. “Yeah, you’re right.” And he is. Harry knows Kingsley is doing everything he ought to and perhaps that’s why he’s the man in charge. Still, Harry can’t shake that information, regardless of his mistrust towards Malfoy.</p><p>“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he says. “If there’s an informant, they’ll eventually slip, or we’ll find out ourselves.”</p><p>“Right,” Harry says and hesitates at the next thing. “And then there’s Malfoy.”</p><p>Kingsley shoots him a knowing look. “I know you two have history,” he says and Harry feels that the way he put no emphasis on the last word was deliberate.</p><p>“It’s not that—”</p><p>“Harry. I meant I know you’ve never… got along. I know. But I trust your judgement,” Kingsley replies and for a brief second, Harry knows he’s talking to a friend, not the Minister of Magic. “Does he deserve that deal if all this checks out?” he asks and something churns in Harry’s stomach at the thought of Malfoy going free after aiding the actual mob. And yet…</p><p>“I mean… He’s not a killer, that’s for sure,” he admits, albeit reluctantly. And then, nothing happens, he doesn’t feel any different after saying it out loud though and deep down Harry knows it’s the truth. He remembers Malfoy’s face in sixth year, at the top of the Astronomy Tower—the taut angles of his shoulders and the absolute mortification marring his face. He remembers porcelain-white, bloodstained fingers when they met in the Manor in seventh year. Draco Malfoy is a lot of things but a murderer is not one of them.</p><p>Kingsley hums. “That’s a good start. We’ll see how he cooperates.”</p><p>Harry nods, feeling he’s convincing himself even more than the Minister. “Yeah, all right.”</p><p>“You’re dismissed. Go brief Weasley before we break it to the whole team.”</p><p>He stands up. “Yes sir.”</p>
<hr/><p>“I still can’t believe it’s Malfoy, of all people,” Ron says, shaking his head. Harry hums in response around his half-eaten sandwich.</p><p>They’re walking through the atrium, just back from lunch where Harry told Ron all about his conversation with Malfoy. It was decidedly less official than with their bosses so Harry took some liberties with telling his friend how exactly he feels about the whole affair—he told Ron about Malfoy’s behaviour and was satisfied that someone got properly annoyed on his behalf, and about all the things Malfoy must be up to in Harry’s opinion.</p><p>“Scratch that, I can absolutely believe it, actually,” his friend adds, picking a stray piece of lettuce off his uniform. “Fucking Malfoy. Of course, the tosser couldn’t stop himself from going evil <i>again</i>.”</p><p>They’re meandering between masses of people going back to work after their breaks and Harry struggles to catch up with his friend. He bumps shoulders with a tall man and does a double-take, seeing he’s wearing a suit so similar to Malfoy’s, Harry thought it was him for a second. He rolls his eyes at himself, once again overthinking everything the prat does, their conversation still fresh in Harry’s head.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Harry shrugs. “On one hand, he brought in all that evidence—we might need his testimony if it checks out.” Ron scoffs at that, casting a small <i>Scourgify</i> at his sleeve. “He just seemed… shady about it. I’m sure there’s something he’s not telling us,” he sighs.</p><p>Harry sees black in his peripheral vision and stops in his tracks as another man in a black suit, this time with sunglasses to match, hurriedly passes by the Floos. Frowning, Harry watches him go into a lift and then, he’s gone. He takes a look around the atrium and counts three more men in suits, different heights and ages, all clad in black, all walking through the crowd without ever stopping or talking to anyone. Harry shakes it off as simply strange; it’s not exactly illegal either, so there’s not much he can do about men wearing clothes that are accidentally also worn by a person that annoys him.</p><p>“Bloody hell, I’m going to need to get this cleaned. Harry?” He stops and turns around to see Harry standing and staring. “All right there, mate?”</p><p>Harry shakes his head quickly. “No, yeah, sorry. Just distracted, I guess.”</p><p>Ron smirks. “Malfoy got under your skin that bad?”</p><p>“No!” Harry says, a little defensive. “He’s just… exhausting.”</p><p>“I bet,” Ron sighs. “Let’s go see if they found anything.”</p><p>“Yeah, let’s go.”</p><p>As soon as they set foot on Level Two, Harry feels a strange sense of <i>wrong</i> settle down, heavy on his shoulders. The floor looks empty while it should be bustling with Aurors at this time of the day and Harry takes a quick look at Ron who looks just as alarmed as Harry feels.</p><p>“Where the hell has everyone gone?”</p><p>“Something’s wrong,” Harry says slowly, unable to shake off the feeling it has something to do with the suited men he saw—he doesn’t want to think whether any of this has anything to do with Malfoy.</p><p>Before they can take a better look around, a familiar lynx Patronus bursts in, rumbling in Kingsley’s baritone. “Potter, Weasley, where the hell are you? East wing, now!”</p><p>They exchange a single look and break into a run. The closer they get to the east wing, the more Aurors they pass, all with their wands drawn and on full alert. Harry spots the top of Kingsley’s head in the crowd, always the tallest person in the room. They push through a sea of their colleagues and reach the Minister, currently bent over two men wearing black suits, both Petrified and bound with Conjured handcuffs. Something churns in Harry’s stomach and he curses inwardly—he had a gut feeling about them and those two are different from the ones he already saw.</p><p>Kingsley straightens as soon as he sees Harry and Ron approach.</p><p>“Harry!”</p><p>“What happened here?” Ron breathes out, wand already out.</p><p>“They got to our floor and started casting without warning as soon as they stumbled upon some Aurors,” Robards pipes in, just having arrived at the scene.</p><p>“It’s the Family,” Harry says darkly, “it must be.”</p><p>“Do you know these men?” The Minister nudges the motionless goons with the tip of his boot.</p><p>“No, but there are more,” Harry replies quickly. “I saw a few in the Atrium, they all look the same—”</p><p>“Shit,” Kingsley curses and a few Aurors nearby turn to look with wide eyes. “Weasley, go join the rest—I want them all found, cuffed and lined up in under an hour. Don’t evacuate, but watch out for civilians. Take Mulberry with you,” he barks. A nearby Auror straightens into awareness—both him and Ron nod a quick <i>yes, sir</i> and they’re gone.</p><p>Kingsly turns to Harry with a grave expression. “Harry,” he puts his hand on Harry’s shoulder and quickly steers him a few steps away from the others. “Do you still have that emergency kit of yours?”</p><p>Harry nods once. “Muggle credit cards, basic healing stuff, the Invisibility Cloak, spare clothes… my phone,” he lists in a hushed tone, refusing to accept what Kingsley is about to say.</p><p>The ‘emergency kit’, as the Minister put it, was more of an Order of the Phoenix thing than any kind of Auror standard. During the post-war trials, Harry and his closest circle watched with trepidation as more and more Death Eaters went free, with some of the Wizengamot members straight-up refusing to take Harry’s account of the events into consideration. That, in turn, prompted them to think the unthinkable—the Wizengamot could have been infiltrated. With tensions running high and so many criminals on the run the Aurors struggled to keep up with locking them up, the Order members had to be prepared for the worst. If there was a possibility of a revolt in the Ministry, they would have had to go under the radar for a while—an old habit of being always vigilant, one Alastor Moody had imprinted into the Order with an iron fist, has resulted in Harry keeping his old, trusty Mokeskin pouch in a locked drawer in his desk, with the essentials hidden inside. Just enough to survive, become invisible and, most importantly, safe. It’s been ten years but old habits die hard and the mere knowledge of it being there within his reach, has brought Harry an unusual sense of security throughout the years.</p><p>“I need you to get it—”</p><p>“What?” Harry interrupts, panic already clutching at his lungs. “No, I need to stay here, the Family—”</p><p>“Harry, the Family is swarming the building and we both know what it means.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“They’re here for Malfoy, there’s no other explanation. And that means his file must have some standing,” Kingsley says urgently. Harry knows what else that means, without the Minister having to say it. If the Family knows Malfoy’s here… “I need you to go get him from the holding cell and get <i>out</i>.”</p><p>Harry tightens the hold around his wand, not very keen on saving Malfoy’s arse. At the same time, if Malfoy gets killed, they will be back to square one.</p><p>“Take this.” Kingsley reaches into his pocket and produces a small, empty vial. “It’s a Portkey. I can’t lift the anti-Apparition wards on the whole perimeter, it’ll just make it easier for them to get inside. Grab what you can and go,” he says quickly, pushing the vial into Harry’s hand.</p><p>He stands there, staring at the Portkey, feeling his magic vibrate inside him with a raw need to get into action, to help, and to do something.</p><p>“Harry, time!”</p><p>“Bloody hell,” Harry curses. He pockets the vial and looks at Kingsley with determination, feeling Malfoy’s wand burning a hole in the side of his thigh.</p><p>“Good lad! You know the drill, contact Weasley in twenty-four hours.”</p><p>Harry nods and runs to his office.</p><p>There’s not much time to ponder over all the events that led to this moment—Harry opens his desk drawer and memories of the Horcrux hunt flood his mind like a river after a drought. He allows himself to run his fingers over the soft, worn leather for a second, feeling strangely emotional thinking about everything he went through with his two best friends. His jaw clenches at the thought of what needs to be done now; Harry ties the pouch around his neck and hides it under his uniform. With its weight secure and solid at his chest, Harry casts one last look at his and Ron’s office, wondering how soon he will get to see it again.</p><p>Closing the door behind him, Harry half-jogs to the holding cells.</p><p>He unlocks the heavy metal door with a series of spells—its metallic creak echoes in the dark, empty corridor and Harry’s greeted with Malfoy’s slender silhouette illuminated by the sparse light coming through the crack. It’s too dark to tell if he’s sleeping or sitting motionless in the dark for dramatic effect, but they don’t have time for any of that right now.</p><p>“Wakey-wakey arsehole,” Harry says, banging his fist on the door once. “Your friends are here.”</p><p>The silhouette moves but doesn’t jump, unperturbed by Harry’s sudden entrance. His eyes slowly adapt to the dark and Harry can make out Malfoy’s pale face in the cell, his hair a little out of order. He’s still wearing his jacket and while it couldn’t have been comfortable, there’s a slight draft so Harry imagines he must have been cold. The small space smells like almonds as if Malfoy radiated it, and the stark contrast between the sweet scent and the damp, stone walls makes Harry huff in annoyance.</p><p>Malfoy springs into awareness in seconds. “What?” he asks, and there’s a subtle note of panic there, his voice just a fraction too high to be natural. “They found me already? What are you doing?” He stares, a little helpless, as Harry comes up to him and grabs his shoulder to drag him out the door.</p><p>“I’ll explain later,” Harry says off-handedly, not really concerned with getting Malfoy on board with the plan. He pulls the vial out of his pocket. “Touch it.”</p><p>Malfoy stares at him in shock. “Potter, you can’t—”</p><p>“Yes, I can, and I will, so kindly shut up while I save your life,” Harry barks. “Come on, I have to get you out of here, the mafia is everywhere and they’re already looking for you.”</p><p>“We can’t Apparate!” Malfoy says abruptly, taking a step back.</p><p>Harry shakes his head. “I know we can’t.” He lifts the vial. “Grab on to this, it’s a Portkey. Come on!”</p><p>Malfoy, the stubborn bastard, doesn’t move. “Where are we going?” he demands, and Harry wants to punch him unconscious.</p><p>“Malfoy, there’s no time,” he grits out, already hearing footsteps behind the corner. “They’re <i>here</i>, you idiot, get moving!”</p><p>They’re getting closer and Malfoy can now hear them too. There are voices, two, no, three men. They’re close. Harry activates the Portkey and holds it out.</p><p>Three. Two. One.</p><p>He can feel Malfoy’s fingers next to his as the magic takes them away in a gut-wrenching spin.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They land on the outskirts of a small town.</p><p>Harry sends thanks to whatever Forces That Be that must have been listening that they arrived on the side of an empty road—no Muggles in sight, no cars, no civilisation for another kilometre or so. Nearby, there’s a sign with the town’s name spray-painted over, and Harry would maybe be worried about it but the anonymity their surroundings granted was exactly what he was hoping for.</p><p>He Glamours his Auror uniform into something less conspicuous, just a regular dark red jacket, and turns around to look for Malfoy. His impromptu charge emerges from behind a tree where the Portkey has thrown him, and stomps over to Harry, his pointy face a picture of fury.</p><p>“Did you just <i>steal me</i> from Ministry custody?! Are you <i>trying</i> to ruin my life?” he growls and runs a shaky hand through his hair.</p><p>“Malfoy, calm down—”</p><p>“Do <i>not</i> tell me to calm down, you absolute dickhead, you just fucked everything up—”</p><p>He kicks a small piece of rubble onto the road and it’s only slightly funny, to see the Malfoy Harry remembers so well come up to the surface—a petulant, spoiled child in the body of a grown man. His hair is in complete disarray from where he ran his hands through it—it makes him look softer and maybe a little lost and Harry isn’t yet sure how to approach that version of him.</p><p>“Malfoy! It’s the Minister’s orders!” Harry interrupts before he goes off completely and it works—Malfoy pauses, squinting at him with suspicion. Harry takes a long breath. “Now shut up and let me think.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was under the impression there was a grand plan devised deep in the guts of the most esteemed Auror Department, before you oh-so-heroically barged into my place of isolation and broke my chains—”</p><p>“Shut up,” Harry says in a low voice, closing his eyes and counting to ten. “If you’ll keep talking for the next twenty-four hours, I swear to Merlin—”</p><p>“Twenty-four—<i>what</i>?” Malfoy stops dead in his tracks and slowly turns to look at him. Harry braces himself.</p><p>“It’s protocol,” he explains tiredly. “You’re a potential witness and we have reason to believe your life was in danger. You’re now under my protection and tomorrow, we’ll find out what happens next. Until then”—Harry shrugs, mouth curved into a sour line—“we wait.”</p><p>Malfoy takes a few calming breaths and Harry’s glad for his training; if the prat was going to punch him, Harry wouldn’t really blame him as their predicament is far from ideal but at least he wouldn’t make it easy for him.</p><p>“So you broke me out—”</p><p>“—to save your sorry life,” Harry finishes, feeling his annoyance get the better of him.</p><p>Malfoy doesn’t say anything and Harry feels a little bad for a moment, knowing very well Malfoy asked for this as much as Harry himself did.</p><p>“Where on earth did it take us anyway?” Malfoy looks around the road and the flat, empty fields stretching beyond the horizon. They’ve already taken a gloomy, autumn tinge of brownish-grey, with only remnants of vegetation still trying to grow in the scarce October sun.</p><p>“Welcome to”—Harry takes one more look at the sign—”<i>Something</i>-borough!” he finishes lamely, spreading his arms. Malfoy rolls his eyes. “The home of mud fields and… not much else, apparently. Let’s Side-Along a little closer to the town and go from there. Find a hotel, or—”</p><p>“No!” Malfoy interrupts. His lips twist into a sneer but there’s a slight tremble in the corner and he seems far too defensive for a thing as mundane as Apparition. Harry frowns.</p><p>“Malfoy, we’re going to need a place to stay, I’m not waiting outside—”</p><p>“We. Can’t. <i>Apparate</i>!” he says stubbornly, treating Harry with an ice-cold glare.</p><p>Harry pauses. “Why not?”</p><p>Malfoy wraps his arms around himself and takes a long, steadying breath. “They have a spell on me,” he sniffs. “To make sure I… obey. If I Apparate, they’ll know our location.”</p><p>Something ugly churns in Harry’s stomach. He’s far from empathising with Malfoy but he’s heard of those kind of spells—a disgusting practice that should no longer be legal—they were usually put on slaves and servants, or sometimes spouses, especially in arranged marriages, when one of the sides was less than happy with their betrothed. The caster is able to follow the Apparition trail of the bound one, the spell allowing them to match the exact location. It’s… a violation, a magical leash keeping a person at arm’s length, helpless against the control—the spell can only be broken by the caster themselves or… if either party dies.</p><p>“They… bound you?” Harry asks quietly, feeling cold. “Merlin, why didn’t you say anything?”</p><p>Malfoy throws his arms up in frustration. “Well, how was I to know you’d Portkey me out of the Ministry into the middle of nowhere?!” He gathers himself and adds: “Could’ve just said so if you wanted me alone.”</p><p>Harry wants to say something else but Malfoy’s clearly avoiding the topic—and it must be a sore spot, if the knit of his pale eyebrows, or the stiffness in his posture are anything to go by. It’s a rare sight—to see a sliver of vulnerability peek out from under that cocky, vain persona, and, not for the first time today, Harry wonders about Draco Malfoy.</p><p>For now, he lets it go. “All right, so we can’t Apparate. We’re going to need to move the Muggle way.”</p><p>“The Muggle way?”</p><p>Harry smirks. “It’s called walking, I’m not sure if you’re familiar.”</p><p>“Well that’s just fucking fantastic,” he sighs and points to his flawless shoes. “These probably cost more than a fortnight in whatever hotel we find in this hellhole.”</p><p>“It’s not that far, stop whining, and let’s go.”</p>
<hr/><p>They reach their goal fairly quickly and in relative silence which feels in equal parts surprising and foreboding. In different circumstances, Harry would call the place rather charming—a sleepy, quiet village with brick houses neatly lined along narrow, cobblestone streets. There are even more fields, patchworked across the hills far away, all empty and smooth, and tranquil under the greyish sky. He spots a few shops here and there, an old church covered in lush, emerald-green vines, there’s even a petrol station where Harry asks about the nearest hotel. Malfoy is strangely quiet throughout the whole trek—he watches their surroundings with carefully concealed curiosity, sparkling silver eyes skittering over unsuspecting Muggles walking to their cars, the goods on display at the station, and even some posters and flyers flaking off an old notice board.</p><p>Harry wonders if Malfoy has ever been—just <i>been</i>—among Muggles. If he has ever had the chance to just walk around a small English town without a purpose or a shady mission to carry out, without magic, without any obligations or threats. He can see that curious gaze linger as they pass the tiny shops, examining every oddity he spots. He can even see Malfoy’s mouth open for a short second when they pass a tiny bakery, and even Harry has to admit that the smell of pastries is nothing short of heavenly. It reminds him to make use of the credit cards he has and Malfoy watches with fascination as Harry buys a few sandwiches and a four-pack of ale at the nearest shop after looking at Malfoy in question and receiving a curt nod.</p><p>Curiously, Harry thinks how different Draco Malfoy could have been if he was just allowed, seeing him so curious about a boring little Muggle town in the middle of nowhere, examining every detail like it carries the mysteries of life itself. </p><p>The hotel is small and… unassuming, for lack of a better word. They walk across a morose-looking car park—the concrete is cracked and overrun with weeds sprouting through the gaps, extending and growing all over a pile of old rubber tires that’s displayed under the fence for no apparent reason. Harry chuckles under his breath, seeing that Malfoy wants to ask, and he almost prompts him to, but the blond decides against it and follows Harry inside.</p><p>A bored, young receptionist eyes them both with unabashed interest and Harry’s painfully reminded that while he’s wearing his Transfigured uniform and a pair of dark trousers, Malfoy’s apparel consists of all things that scream <i>rich and possibly gay</i> all over the place. Even his bloody nails are subtly manicured and Harry rolls his eyes at all the assumptions the receptionist must be making. Whereas not well-versed in all things Muggle, Malfoy immediately catches <i>that</i> and Harry hears a deep, quiet chuckle as he’s paying for the room, and feels Malfoy standing too close with his body heat and sweet smell and he wants to elbow the bastard in the plexus.</p><p>He’s silently grateful they don’t charge per hour.</p><p>The rooms are upstairs, accessed from an outside terrace with rusty metal railings and old lamps filled with dead flies. There’s a snack machine two doors down from their room and Harry spots Malfoy eyeing the skittles and rolos behind the glass. Harry checks the room number on the door with the one attached to their key and hysterically mourns that for seventeen years, he has successfully avoided rooming with Draco Malfoy only to now share a dingy hotel room while making sure the tosser doesn’t get murdered.</p><p>“Well, this is charming,” Malfoy announces as they enter.</p><p>The room is just like Harry expected a small town hotel room to look like. Faded, lavender wallpaper that’s peeling off a little in the corners, dark brown carpet that may have once been a tad fluffier than it currently indicates, two identical beds, one of which Malfoy has already claimed as his, walking around it like a confused housecat, a simple table with two chairs, and a TV set. The glory days of this hotel are long gone but Harry once slept in moors and forests for a year so a roof that’s not made of canopy over his head is a win in his book.</p><p>“It’s not that bad,” Harry mutters, and turns at the sound Malfoy makes. “You’re lucky they came after you and I had to get you out in a hurry. You should see some of the safehouses I’ve been to. Or where I grew up,” he adds quietly, despite himself.</p><p>In the corner of his eye, Harry sees Malfoy turn so he busies himself with throwing everything he’s bought onto the other bed.</p><p>A pause, and the moment’s passed. “Yes, what unbelievable luck has come upon me. The stars must have truly worked for this one,” Malfoy deadpans, examining the country floral bedspread before tentatively sitting down. He groans, stretching his long legs, the sound almost pornographic. Knowing Malfoy, it was probably supposed to be. “I find it hard to imagine our beloved government would keep their employees in a human equivalent of a dog cage.”</p><p>“You have a bed for the night,” Harry grits out and points to the ensuite, and then to the TV. “There’s a bathroom with a shower, and there’s an old telly. Knock yourself out.” With that, he Summons the remote and throws it at Malfoy who swiftly catches it—not without a smirk—and Harry’s heart skips a single beat at the simple, ages-old thrill that goes up his spine. As much Harry hates to admit it, Malfoy’s still got it—the Seeker reflexes, the spoiled, entitled attitude and the uncanny, undeniable ability to drive Harry insane.</p><p>“Have you considered a career change, Auror Potter?” Malfoy muses, turning the remote between his fingers. “You would make a marvellous real estate agent, what with your impeccable taste and impressive salesmanship.”</p><p>“I think I saw a kennel outside,” Harry says conversationally, not turning around. “You can be my guest if you keep barking like that.” He opens the bathroom door and peeks inside. “Good, everything’s here. I need a shower and some food.”</p><p>“Such low-maintenance, Auror Potter.”</p><p>“Bite me,” Harry quips and disappears into the bathroom.</p>
<hr/><p>The shower is cramped and its water pressure leaves something to be desired but Harry nearly moans when the first scalding-hot rivulets drip down his back. It’s getting late and only now Harry fully realises it’s still the same day—just hours ago, he was interrogating Malfoy at the Ministry. Just hours ago, he was having lunch with Ron, chatting and having coffee. And then, inexplicably, Harry found himself extracting a possible high-profile witness who just happened to be his old school rival, arch-nemesis, and a general pain in the arse.</p><p>His exhaustion swirls down the drain along with dust and grime he scrubs off his body and Harry finally feels the knots in his shoulders give in to the steady stream of water lashing his skin until it’s flushed. He briefly considers having a leisurely wank to let off some steam but can’t quite bring himself to do it with Malfoy right behind the door. Even with a simple Privacy Charm, there’s an uneasy feeling he wouldn’t know how to wipe the evidence of what he just did off his face afterwards and Harry’s not sure if Malfoy would notice or not. His hand swipes over his cock a little too slow to be entirely innocent for just cleaning, but eventually, Harry decides against it.</p><p>He casts some Freshening Spells he had learned from Molly to make his clothes feel a little less sweaty and grimy, and changes into an old AC/DC t-shirt he fishes out of the Mokeskin pouch, one of many he had found in Sirius’ room. After a second of deliberation, he gets another one for Malfoy to sleep in—it’s Blondie, and Harry snorts. While it would be interesting to see him try to relax in a dress shirt, Harry’s not a sadist, and maybe that little scrap of comfort will make all the difference in the amount of headache Malfoy would otherwise send Harry’s way. As he rummages around the Extendable Charm inside the pouch, Harry’s fingers brush against Malfoy’s wand. It can’t be his own—the cool, soft pull of magic is unmistakable and for a second, Harry wants to take it and cast—something, anything—to maybe feel like he did back then, to find something he has felt he’d lost for some time, somewhere after the Hogwarts Battle, to reclaim that feeling and stifle the ache he could never put his finger on.</p><p>In the end, he doesn’t reach for it.</p><p>When Harry leaves the bathroom, he’s greeted by an empty room and a momentary flash of panic grips cold at his stomach until he notices that one of the ale bottles is missing. It would be quite a scandal to find out a charge was kidnapped or murdered while the Auror responsible for keeping them safe was considering whether to masturbate in the shower (and he bitterly thinks he could have, seeing that Malfoy’s gone). After a little deliberation, Harry shakes his head and takes a bottle as well—still somewhat cold, a nice end to an otherwise dreadful day.</p><p>Ale in hand, he steps outside and immediately spots it—a narrow set of metal stairs leading to the roof, at the very end of the terrace. Halfway up, Harry can already see a mop of white hair, stark and shining under the stars. If Malfoy notices he’s there, he doesn’t acknowledge it, sitting propped up on his arms, his long legs hanging off the roof between the vertical railings.</p><p>Harry plops down next to him, legs crossed, back against the rails. “Figures I’d find you here,” he says, uncapping his beer.</p><p>Malfoy doesn’t say anything for a second, taking a sip instead. “Figures? Know me that well, do you?” he asks wryly.</p><p>“Well enough to know you’d be brooding on a roof under the moonlight. Y’know, all dramatic,” says Harry, and takes a swig, sighing happily.</p><p>“I suppose it does have a certain panache, doesn’t it?” Malfoy says with a chuckle. “Also, my hair looks <i>resplendent</i> in this lighting.”</p><p>Harry has to admit it does but it’s not like he’ll say it out loud. He can only sneak another glance and leave it at that.</p><p>Malfoy is strangely quiet for a while—he stares into the distance with an absent expression and Harry wonders what goes on in his head. He’s not going to be picky about that change of heart, although Malfoy does seem a little deflated, it's as if all the lip, the attitude, and the cockiness evaporated along with the last rays of sunlight.</p><p>“What happens now?” he asks quietly, constellations reflecting in the dark silver of his eyes.</p><p>“I… wish I had an answer for you,” Harry says, staring down the neck of his bottle. “We wait. I’ll make contact tomorrow, see if it’s safe for us to come back,” he says, wondering what Ron, Kingsley, and Robards might be up to. Wondering if they caught all the mobsters, if they managed to get some answers that will prove Harry did the right thing. Wondering if Malfoy was telling the truth all along.</p><p>“They’ll kill me if they find me, you know.” Malfoy finally looks at Harry—something rueful flashes across his face, quickly disappearing underneath a cool mask of indifference.</p><p>Harry frowns, feeling his curiosity spike again. “Want to tell me that story?” he asks carefully, quietly, taking an unfair advantage of the little moment of calm before the inevitable storm, no matter what happens tomorrow.</p><p>Malfoy looks back at the car park, letting out a long exhale. “Where do I start?”</p><p>“I find beginnings are good for that.”</p><p>He smirks. “I’ll start at the end then.” Another tired breath. Harry doesn’t know if it’s the pale moonlight, or the black clothes, or something else entirely, but it suddenly strikes him how exhausted Malfoy looks. There are shadows under his eyes, a slight hunch to his shoulders, and something not quite <i>Malfoy</i> about him, something Harry hasn’t noticed earlier. He looks too grown-up for twenty-seven, too <i>old</i>, and, inexplicably, something stirs in Harry’s chest.</p><p>“I came because I… wanted to stop. I wanted it all to stop,” he says.</p><p>“How long has it been going on?” Harry asks, not yet sure what <i>it</i> is.</p><p>A shrug. “Long enough.”</p><p>“So what changed?”</p><p>Malfoy chuckles softly. “Auror Potter. Always asking the right questions. Getting to the bottom of things.”</p><p>“Something tipped the scales, didn’t it,” he states more than asks.</p><p>“My mother,” Malfoy says simply and suddenly it’s so obvious Harry wants to laugh. Of course, Narcissa Malfoy must have been involved, too, and Harry thinks back to that one moment in the Forbidden Forest, thinks about life debts and all the complicated things people do for the ones they love. He takes another gulp of his beer.</p><p>“They wanted to use her,” Malfoy continues, “to try and make me do… things. Things I didn’t feel comfortable doing,” he adds before Harry has the chance to ask.</p><p>“Where is she now?”</p><p>“Safe.”</p><p>“That’s all you’re going to say?”</p><p>Malfoy turns to him. “I can’t risk her,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I know you think very little of me or any bonds I am capable of building but—” He exhales, looking into the distance again. “She’s the most important person to me. I made the necessary precautions, she’s <i>safe</i>.”</p><p>Harry opens and closes his mouth, maybe a little offended at how easily Malfoy assumed Harry thinks the worst of him, and maybe a little ashamed, too, of how quickly he jumped to conclusions, which seems to be a pattern for him whenever Draco Malfoy is concerned.</p><p>“You really worked with them, didn’t you?” Harry asks quietly.</p><p>“Yes, Potter, although ‘with’ is not the word I’d use,” he says tiredly. Harry decides to stay silent, expecting he’s about to hear a little more of Malfoy’s story. His patience is rewarded when Malfoy starts to talk.</p><p>“I suppose there’s no harm in telling you the rest, since… Yes,” Malfoy says as if convincing himself. “Either I die or I don’t so— Right.” He nods, looks at his bottle for a second and takes another sip. “So. After the war, after that series of caricatures the Ministry called <i>trials</i>,” he starts and Harry wants to protest but only clenches his jaw, remembering his own feelings at the time, and bites back the ages-old need to defy Malfoy, as instinctive as breathing.</p><p>Malfoy glances at him. “Oh? Not defending them, I see? So you agree, good.”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“<i>Anyway</i>,” he continues, clearly biting down a smirk. “Just like it probably says in your little files, my mother and I left Britain and went to France.”</p><p>“You speak French?” Harry blurts out.</p><p>“Yes, I’ve spoken it since I was seven— Stop interrupting,” he brushes it off, not looking at Harry. “So, we went to live in the Malfoy Summer Estate for a while, until Mother took some time to… recuperate. Until things calmed down a bit back home.”</p><p>Malfoy speaks very matter-of-factly but Harry knows the meaning behind his words. Narcissa was probably grieving her husband even before he died, living with the knowledge he would never be back, the knowledge that her family would never be the same again after the horrors they had seen and could do nothing about.</p><p>“We had some friends there, obviously. We got invited to a soirée here, a banquet there, you know how it is,” he says with an eye roll and pauses. “Well, you probably don’t. Anyway, by the time I realised something was… not right, some significant alliances were already made,” he says bitterly. “So I watched those boring parties a little more closely, started to pay attention to things I would have normally brushed off as a nuisance.”</p><p>“What did you normally do there, then?” Harry can’t help but ask. He can’t really imagine Malfoy talking investment and wealth management with decrepit old men or entertaining dowagers with biscuits and tea.</p><p>His lips stretch into a smile around the bottle. “I knew where to look for quality entertainment,” he says cryptically but his smile falters. “It was too late, though. Their eyes were on the prize and they were already making a move.”</p><p>“A move?”</p><p>“My mother was—is, I suppose—a wealthy heiress to an old pure-blood family, about to become a widow because, let’s face it, my father’s days were already numbered, Azkaban is a far cry from Vichy— Well, long story short, a union was in the making.”</p><p>Hary shakes his head. “<i>Union</i>? Wait, but didn’t she have a choice?” He finds it hard to believe someone would just tell Narcissa Malfoy to marry some faceless man and have her comply, just like that.</p><p>“Potter,” Malfoy grits out, running a hand through his hair. “You have to understand the… specificity of the viper nest we found ourselves in. Spells exist. Horrible, unimaginable spells, going far beyond what you know as <i>unforgivable</i>,” he says, looking at Harry with an intensity that makes his heart stutter. “People disappear and are never found. Gold gets passed around and suddenly, you’re arrested for a dead body you’ve never seen in your life. Are you following?”</p><p>Harry slowly nods, recalling some of the files he’s read over the years. Some of the bodies the Aurors have found. It seemed there was a twisted sense of justice between those people—a punishment that fit the crime, bodies marked with specific spells and curses to indicate what was the victim’s sin. Those who stole from the hand that fed them would have their own removed from the body. Those who killed without explicit orders would go straight to Azkaban after identifying their families’ bodies. Those who tried to flee the country would soon have no legs to even flee to another room. Those marked as traitors, though… Harry swallows thickly.</p><p>“They were already starting to call it ‘their little family’ at the time and I wasn’t going to let them suck her in. And Mother was… not well. She needed peace, rest, she needed <i>time</i>. So I bargained.”</p><p>“And you offered—”</p><p>“—my services,” he finishes, tilting his head in a mock-bow. “Which they found… surprisingly useful. Enough to switch focus and leave her be, as long as I was willing to cooperate.”</p><p>Harry stares. He never expected Malfoy to sacrifice his own skin and agree to once again get entangled in the gold-spun spiderwebs of the corrupt underbelly of the wizarding society. There’s also something in Mafoy’s face, or maybe his voice, a sliver of defeat cutting through the firm, clipped syllables and a determination that makes him look just a little more human than what he projected until now.</p><p>“So. Before you ask—I was <i>not</i> a hitman. It became very apparent, very soon, that I’m as good at killing as you are at leaving things alone,” he smirks.</p><p>“What did you do then?” Harry breathes.</p><p>“I charmed,” he says simply. Harry frowns. “I seduced, persuaded, baited, and coaxed,” Malfoy lists. He peers at Harry from under his fringe with a mischievous gleam. “I <i>led astray</i>. In other words, I recruited fresh meat which, I’ll have you know, is a downright barbaric way to describe my art.”</p><p>Harry squints, absently picking on the label on his beer. He shakes his head quickly. “What are you on about?”</p><p>Malfoy shrugs. “What they needed was connections. The main focus was to expand their operation but the one thing they wanted to avoid was working with religious Dark Arts fanatics, or people joining solely out of fear—basically, <i>not</i> what good old Voldy was doing. They needed business partners—people who came smelling an opportunity and stayed for the profits. Unmistakable, hard, <i>golden</i> profits, not empty promises of power, pure-blood glory and all that shite.” He sneers. “And that’s where I stepped in. And, believe it or not, even I was surprised at how proficient I turned out to be.”</p><p>“So you… recruited,” Harry says, his brow furrowing. “How?”</p><p>Malfoy smiles coyly, his perfect teeth flashing in the moonlight. Like a predator playing with his food, his tongue peeks out to lick his lips. “Some needed gold, some needed influence—I was able to make them believe they would get both. That their investment would pay off tenfold.” He grins, biting his lip. “And with some… I needed more of a <i>hands-on</i> approach,” he says in a blithe tone.</p><p>Harry feels his face burn, an idea already forming in his head. Like a missing piece of a puzzle, it falls perfectly into place—Malfoy’s lecherous confidence, his suave, upper-class charms, and, as much as Harry would like to pretend it’s not the case, his infuriatingly good looks. He clears his throat. “You mean— That is. Er,” he stammers, hoping he won’t choke on his beer. The tables have turned and Malfoy seems to revel in seeing him squirm, and Harry welcomes the small sting of anger in his chest, easy and familiar to hold against him. It’s like getting a new job just for the thrill of something new—he’d rather stay in his lane for now, skeptical and a little mistrustful, than dive headfirst into the notion that Malfoy might see right through him.</p><p>“Sex, Potter,” Malfoy says smoothly. “I used sex to lure them in.”</p><p>“You—” <i>Fucked them into doing crime</i>? Harry wants to ask, but thinks better of it, grateful for the velvety darkness around them obscuring the burning flush across his cheeks. He refuses to think too much about that particular line of work, or what Malfoy must have been up to during those allegedly boring banquets of his.</p><p>Next to him, Malfoy lets out a sultry laugh as he watches Harry with curious, glimmering eyes. “Auror Potter, such dirty thoughts,” he clicks his tongue. “Good grief, what would the Minister say?” He shakes his head at Harry’s death glare. “I didn’t <i>have</i> sex with them. Not always at least,” he adds innocently. “That was the allure, you see? It was about the <i>idea</i> I could put in their heads, it was the anticipation, the <i>what ifs</i>, it was my ability to make their imaginations run wild and keep them on their toes, always so eager and… hungry,” he speaks lowly, his long fingers toying with the now empty bottle. “It’s not about what’s <i>on</i> the table… it’s about what <i>could</i> be.”</p><p>The words tug at the edges of Harry’s awareness as he contemplates all the things he’s learned about Malfoy in just one day, thinking of how much he’s not telling, what things bubble underneath his flashy exterior. Transported over ten years back, Harry again finds himself wondering what Draco Malfoy might be up to this time.</p><p>“And then, that pesky violence issue came back to light—I don’t know why, someone said something, perhaps—and I found myself in quite a pickle, as you do.”</p><p>“I don’t.”</p><p>Malfoy just laughs. “I decided that it was time to… terminate my employment, so to speak.”</p><p>“They wanted you to start killing,” Harry says numbly.</p><p>Malfoy hums. “Among other things. They also renewed their interest in Mother, seeing as the business was thriving under the Aurors’ noses.”</p><p>Harry’s nostrils flare but he shakes it off to ask the last question. “So why me?”</p><p>He scoffs. “Come on, Auror Potter, that’s an easy one. You’re <i>you</i>.” Harry wants to say something but somehow he knows it’s not about his Saviour status, or about any aspect of his position in the wizarding society.</p><p>“Care to elaborate on that?”</p><p>“I still think they have someone inside the Ministry,” Malfoy sighs. “And, well. <i>You</i> are the last person on this godforsaken continent to be involved with the mafia.”</p><p>Harry snorts. “Thanks, I guess.” After a heartbeat, he asks wryly: “Just the continent?”</p><p>“Don’t want your head to get any bigger.”</p><p>“There are more good Aurors, you know,” Harry says.</p><p>There’s a long pause; Malfoy quietly watches cars pass by on the motorway they can see from the roof. “I’m sure there are, Potter,” he says blankly.</p><p>Harry puts away his bottle and wraps his jacket a little tighter around his middle—it’s getting cold but he’s reluctant to burst the little bubble they’ve found themselves in, especially if Malfoy’s feeling chatty.</p><p>“How did it all start? I mean, at those parties?” he asks.</p><p>Malfoy tenses a little, leaning his forehead on the railing. “I don't know, I was high for most of it.”</p><p>Harry turns to look at him in question.</p><p>He rolls his eyes. “Cocaine, Potter. It’s one hell of a drug. And I say, I did like to party. It went on for a few months, right after I took the job. I fucked, drank, and snorted myself out of thinking about the clusterfuck I had on my hands.”</p><p>“And then?” Harry asks, unable to hide the concern in his voice.</p><p>“I… stopped. I didn’t like the person I was becoming. I was.. losing control,” he says quickly, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes. “And control was something I needed at the time.”</p><p>“You like the person you are now?”</p><p>“Potter, you have to understand it’s not the question of liking or disliking,” he says slowly, shaking his head. “It’s a matter of life and death. As long as I’m useful, I live. See, even right now.” He gestures around them. “I have useful information so they get Harry Potter, the Saviour himself, to be my big, strong bodyguard. If this ends well, and, don’t take it personally, I think the odds are not currently in my favour, I’ll find something else to be good for.”</p><p>“At.”</p><p>It strikes a chord with Harry and he’s slightly surprised he can relate to Malfoy in regards to what might be his deepest fear. It’s an ache that has sat under his skin for years, never really gone, only reminding him it’s there from time to time, like a bad knee when it’s about to rain. It’s a very particular kind of despair, to want to be wanted. To have nothing to offer and still be cradled close to someone’s chest like something sacred. To have a purpose without having to scratch his fingers bloody in an attempt to keep it.</p><p>Whether it was his childhood, or the war, or even his adult life, Harry has always wondered what it would feel like to be needed. Not for a grand purpose, not for his skill or status. Just needed, for him. And it’s a terrifying thing, to discover someone so different feeling so similar.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Harry’s voice catches in his throat. “Find something you’re good at, not for. You’re not a— a tool, Draco, you have free will. And as much as I hate to admit it to your face, you’re smart. You’ll figure it out,” says Harry, carefully not thinking about using Malfoy’s first name.</p><p>He could swear he sees the corner of Malfoy’s mouth lift.</p><p>“And you? Always pegged you for a future Quidditch star,” Malfoy muses. “You were good, <i>as much as I hate to admit it to your face</i>,” he adds with a fake smile.</p><p>It startles a laugh out of Harry. “You weren’t so bad either.”</p><p>Malfoy leans back all the way, propping himself up on his elbows. “Circe, I haven’t flown in… years. The last time must have been Hogwarts.”</p><p>“Do you miss it?”</p><p>Malfoy shrugs.</p><p>He doesn’t know how long they stay on the roof. It feels strangely anticlimactic, to have a heart-to-heart with his supposed enemy under an array of stars dashed across the inky sky, talking about seducing mobsters, cocaine, and Quidditch, of all things. There’s a tiny, sedulously folded away part of Harry that wants to believe Malfoy—it’s the part that watched a sixteen-year-old boy unable to kill an old man. The part that still lives because that same boy once refused to point his finger at Harry and say <i>it’s him</i>. The part that drove Harry to pull him out of Fiendfyre, to stand up for him before the whole Wizengamot ten years ago, and to have this disconcerting conversation on a roof of a Muggle motel in the middle of the night.</p><p>There’s also a part of Harry that’s angry, almost jealous of the clear purpose Malfoy seems to have—carved into the backs of his hands, driving him steadily way back in France, and then to England, right into Harry’s life. It’s a clarity he’s been chasing for years, a sense of self-security he has watched slip through his fingers time and again, like a child that’s caught a ladybug, having it fly away before he can count the spots.</p><p>He sneaks a few more glances at Malfoy and thinks he looks just as old as Harry feels.</p><p>They go back to their room after a while and Harry’s glad to find a small electric kettle and a few bags of complimentary tea in one of the cupboards. Malfoy watches him with fascination as Harry plugs it in but quickly turns away when he’s caught. He walks around the room, examining every Muggle thing he can find: playing with the light switches until Harry tells him to stop, poking the long-used-up air freshener by the door, and even pulling the ceiling fan rope to find it out of order.</p><p>“God, I miss London already,” he says dramatically, throwing himself on the bed to watch Harry make their tea. “To think right now, I could be nursing a glass of vintage Ogden’s in one hand, and a pair of tight bollocks in the other.”</p><p>Harry groans and busies himself with the kettle. There’s a rustle coming from the bed and he sees Malfoy take off his suit jacket. And then, Harry nearly chokes. Underneath his jacket, Malfoy’s wearing a leather shoulder holster, with a sleek, brown gun grip clearly peeking out of the shank.</p><p>Malfoy notices his staring and has the audacity to <i>wink</i> at him. “Are you going to watch me undress? Why, Auror Potter, that is highly uncouth. I hardly blame you, though, I am known to be irresistible—”</p><p>“What the <i>fuck</i> is that, Malfoy?” Harry cuts him off, looking at the holster with horror.</p><p>Malfoy tilts his head. “For the record, it’s disappointing to immediately know you’re not asking about my incredible physique. <i>This</i>,” he says, pulling out the revolver, making Harry’s every muscle tense into alert, “is a classic Smith &amp; Wesson .44 revolver.” Harry watches, stunned into silence, as Malfoy expertly empties the cylinder, one bullet after another neatly falling into his cupped hand. “Six and a half inches, and I’m sure there’s a penis joke here somewhere.”</p><p>“You’re carrying a bloody gun?” Harry breathes. “And you’re telling me this <i>now</i>?”</p><p>“Before you have a meltdown,” Malfoy says with an eye roll. “One: there are no magical regulations against Muggle firearms, did you know?” he asks excitedly. “Two: while I may not be an expert on <i>electricalities</i> and such, I assure you I know how to handle this little toy.”</p><p>“It’s not a toy, Malfoy, it’s a gun!” Harry says incredulously. “Why do you even need it?”</p><p>“Your question brings me to three: apparently, Muggles do not feel that threatened by—and I am quoting—<i>a wooden stick</i>,” he deadpans. “I only ever used it for persuasion, don’t worry. And apparently, it also carries a certain amount of sex-appeal, which never hurts.”</p><p>“Malfoy, if this thing fucking fires—”</p><p>Malfoy laughs darkly. “Guns don’t kill people, Potter. It’s the ones who pull the trigger.”</p><p>Harry doesn’t have an answer to that, still eyeing the bloody revolver with growing trepidation.</p><p>“Ah, ah, I know what you’re thinking, Auror Potter,” he says playfully, “and we both know you can’t take it.”</p><p>“It would be easier if you just handed it over.”</p><p>“Not happening. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will go and get naked now.”</p><p>Harry chokes on his own saliva.</p><p>“I meant in the shower but this is <i>delightful</i>,” Malfoy laughs, his fringe falling into his eyes. “Does the male form make you uncomfortable, Auror Potter?” he asks, biting his lower lip. “Or is it the opposite? Do you like what you’re seeing?”</p><p>Harry swings his hand with more force than necessary, irritation simmering in his gut. The t-shirt he left on the bed earlier flies straight into Malfoy’s chest with a soft thump. “Got you this to sleep in,” he barks, “no need to thank me.”</p><p>Malfoy picks up the shirt and examines it for maybe a second before throwing it back onto Harry’s bed. “I’m not putting it on,” he says in a clipped tone.</p><p>“Malfoy, come on, you can’t sleep—”</p><p>“I’m going to shower now. Don’t wait up.” With that, he promptly leaves, slamming the bathroom door behind him. A minute later, the steady rush of water fills the room and Harry lies on top of his bed and wonders what on earth could have set Malfoy off so much.</p><p>He’s already asleep when the bathroom door opens.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next morning, Harry wakes up first. It’s still a little dark outside—Harry’s used to waking up at the crack of dawn to go for a morning run before work, sometimes stopping by a small bakery near Grimmauld. Even before he whispers Malfoy’s name in his general direction, he knows he’ll have to forgo his daily routine—his charge makes an unintelligible sound and turns his back on Harry. Sighing, he gets dressed, making sure to check his Transfigured jacket still holds, takes his pouch and goes outside, locking the door behind him. It’s not like Malfoy is waking up anytime soon.</p>
<p>The crisp morning air helps Harry clear his head as he walks to the nearest shop and picks up some breakfast and two large coffees, surprisingly fancy to be found in a town so small. He’s not sure how Malfoy takes his coffee nowadays, but clearly remembers him putting ungodly amounts of sugar in all his hot drinks back at Hogwarts, so he asks for two extra pumps of caramel in one of the coffees. He doesn’t dwell too much on his complex knowledge of Malfoy’s dietary preferences but, after some deliberation, he also picks up a double chocolate muffin, absently hoping it will shut the bastard up for a few hours.</p>
<p>When Harry comes back, it’s to find Malfoy sitting cross-legged on his bed, the aroma of soap and almonds lingering in the air. His gun is disassembled on the throw before him and he’s cleaning one of the parts with a crumpled piece of toilet paper.</p>
<p>“Look at you, doing murder arts and crafts,” says Harry. He puts all his purchases on the tiny table in the corner. “Come on, I brought breakfast. And I got you something special for being a good criminal,” he says</p>
<p>“You’re in a chirpy mood.” Malfoy raises a questioning eyebrow and puts down what he’s doing. “I’m not sure if you remember, but you have my wand so I have to make do with <i>this</i>,” he says, grimacing at the roll of hotel-grade toilet paper next to him. “How does it feel, to stoop so low as to mock me?”</p>
<p>Harry tilts his head. “I feel I should be asking that question. And for your information, I’m calling the Minister today and we’re finding out what happens next. Aren’t you excited?”</p>
<p>“<i>Excited</i> is not the word I would use, no,” Malfoy says in a bored tone. “I’m either going to get killed, go to Azkaban, or be stuck with you for the foreseeable future,” he lists, extending three fingers. “And honestly, at this point, I don’t know which is worse.”</p>
<p>“Good to know I’m running up against death and Azkaban,” says Harry. “Well? Do you want the food or not?”</p>
<p>Mafloy grumbles under his breath and joins Harry at the table.</p>
<p>Their breakfast passes without any interruptions, in a silence that Harry’s mortified to call somewhat companionable. He watches Malfoy immediately snatch the muffin, not even asking before claiming it as his. He sighs happily at the first sip of his too-sweet coffee, quiet enough for Harry to pretend he didn’t hear it, and Harry tries not to laugh at the fact that taming Draco Malfoy apparently goes down to stuffing his face shut with sweets.</p>
<p>When they’re done, Harry goes outside and uses the burner to call Ron and Kingsley. It’s not a long conversation; it’s still dangerous for them to make too much contact or draw any unnecessary attention so Kingsley puts him on speaker so that Robards and Ron, who it seems is now naturally included in all things Harry-related, can also participate.</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t know what he’s been expecting up until now, but when his bosses break the news to him, he needs a moment to collect his thoughts. In just twenty-four hours, the whole DMLE was put on full alert. They’ve detained eleven people and every single one of Malfoy’s tips has turned out to be valuable so far. The detainees aren’t any big fish, mostly business owners and a few bankers, but Ron has informed him with the utmost satisfaction that all have been spilling everything they know and the investigation is going smoother than they had dared to hope.</p>
<p>When the three of them move on to the hard part, Harry realises he’s gripping the terrace railing so hard, his confused magic is heating and cooling it over and over again. It’s a good reflection of his own mental state when Kingsley tells him the trial has been scheduled to take place in two months and the Wizengamot won’t budge.</p>
<p>Two months.</p>
<p>Harry wonders if the Family has anything to do with the Wizengamot’s relentlessness, wonders how many judges could be corrupt enough to vote this through. Two months is such an inconvenient amount of time for the DMLE, there must be more leaks in their department than Harry’s ready to accept. Two months is not nearly enough time to catch all the perpetrators. It’s going to be a nightmare of a task and Robards informs Harry that there will be no task force this time. <i>The Department is the task force now, Potter, we need all our men on this, twenty-four seven</i>. </p>
<p>Two months, however, is just enough for the Family to hire the best lawyers they can find. It’s ideal for quick damage control and setting off to find and eliminate their most important witness. The witness who’s currently seven feet away from Harry, possibly finishing up his coffee. The witness who’s probably the worst person for an Auror to be babysitting, seeing their volatile track record with said Auror isn’t anything to brag about.</p>
<p>
  <i>Eight weeks. You need to hit the road, switch location at least once a week, lay low. Protect Malfoy’s life, we need him to testify. Standard procedures. No magic unless necessary. Don’t get caught. Don’t get killed.</i>
</p>
<p>Malfoy’s getting his deal. Harry’s head spins with the gravity of the news—Malfoy was telling the truth, Malfoy is a target, he’s hunted by the mafia, and Harry’s job is to now make sure he doesn’t end up six feet under before the trial. He needs to make sure Malfoy gets up on that stand and tells the Wizengamot everything they need to put them all away, to end the Family’s reign and send them where they belong.</p>
<p>They talk details after that and Harry knows the drill, more or less. His heart is still hammering as he goes over possible scenarios in his head. Malfoy betraying him and running off into the sunset. Malfoy getting killed by a hired hitman. Harry committing a crime of passion and strangling Malfoy with his bare hands.</p>
<p>He’s only half-present when they finish talking and robotically repeats what he’s been told; he promises to get Malfoy on board, to get him to agree to their conditions, and to keep the bastard alive. He barely hears Ron wish him good luck in a strained voice.</p>
<p>“Congratulations,” Harry says as he re-enters the room. Malfoy is sitting on his bed, mindlessly sifting through a Muggle gossip magazine with an expression of a child that has found a dead frog. Disgusted, yet too fascinated not to poke it with a stick. Harry begrudgingly wonders how Malfoy got his hands on it and whether that resourcefulness is something natural or perhaps an effect of spending too much time with mobsters for the most of his twenties. Malfoy looks up and straightens as soon as he sees Harry’s expression that clearly screams <i>funeral</i> rather than <i>success</i>.</p>
<p>“Draco Malfoy you are now officially a witness under the DLME’s and, by extension, the Ministry of Magic’s protection,” Harry recites in a bored tone. “You are proposed a deal in which you will be exonerated and cleared of all charges if you agree to testify against your associates. I’m assigned to protect you until the trial that’s been scheduled in eight weeks so you can give your testimony, seeing as you’re a high-profile witness and might be pursued by the defendants with the intent to kill.”</p>
<p>“What…” Malfoy breathes, staring at Harry like he sprouted a second head. He’s quiet for a while and Harry lets him process it all—Merlin knows he’s going to need some time as well. “<i>Eight weeks</i>?!” he splutters, jumping off the bed. “As in, <i>two months</i>? With you?”</p>
<p>“If you agree to take the deal, then yes,” Harry grits out. “If you decide to defect later on, or don’t give the testimony needed to take them down, you'll automatically be tried with the rest,” he says. “So what’s it gonna be, Malfoy?”</p>
<p>Malfoy pauses, pacing back and forth across the room. It’s giving Harry a headache but he powers through it, trying very hard to understand it’s a lot of information to take in, even for an evil tosser like Malfoy. “Do I get my wand back?”</p>
<p>“Not if you take the deal.”</p>
<p>“So I’ll basically be your pet?” he asks incredulously.</p>
<p>“No,” Harry sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m not a lawyer, it’s— complicated, okay? You’re a witness but also a criminal. You turned yourself in by coming to the DMLE but they’re willing to let you go if you help catch the rest. If you don’t, you’re—”</p>
<p>“I’m fucked,” Malfoy says blankly. “I’m fucked either way.”</p>
<p>At that, Harry feels slightly annoyed. “Listen, this isn’t personal, but have you maybe thought you’ll actually <i>need</i> that protection, seeing as you took an afternoon off to throw your buddies under a bus?”</p>
<p>“A bus? What bus?”</p>
<p>“I—” Harry deflates. “Nevermind,” he barks.</p>
<p>“How am I supposed to feel safe without my bloody wand, Potter?”</p>
<p>“Would the Muggle law enforcement allow a witness to carry a gun?”</p>
<p>Malfoy looks at him with an open mouth, slowly shaking his head. “Potter, I do hope you’re aware we’re <i>not Muggles</i>, you see the evidence of that on your forehead every day in the mirror—”</p>
<p>“Malfoy,” Harry cuts him off. “Those are the conditions and they’re not up for discussion. We’re doing you a huge favour here so you can either take it or leave it,” Harry says in a final tone.</p>
<p>“You’re not taking my gun.”</p>
<p>He groans. “It’s out of my jurisdiction, however, rest assured that if you fire it, I will stick it so far up your arse, you’ll be coughing gunpowder,” he says coldly. “And I <i>will</i> be filing a petition to review that law when this is all over.”</p>
<p>“Such an upstanding citizen,” Malfoy says wryly.</p>
<p>“There’s one more thing,” Harry mutters, the feeling of apprehension stiffening his shoulders. “You’re not going to like it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, do tell, what other surprises our beloved government has prepared?” Malfoy asks, throwing his hands in the air.</p>
<p>“If you agree to the conditions, I need to put you under a Surveillance Spell. It’s nothing fancy, just—”</p>
<p>“Come again?”</p>
<p>Harry bites his tongue and continues. “It’s a standard safety measure. It’s not permanent, and it only works if I tune into it,” he explains. “It’s like a wiretap? You know, so I can hear you? But I can only use it in emergencies, if you disappear or something—”</p>
<p>“Auror Potter, if I didn’t know you any better, the mere thought of undergoing such a procedure would render me violated to my very bones,” Malfoy says haughtily and Harry gives up, letting him vent. “Am I to take your word for it? Wandless, surveilled, on your mercy—”</p>
<p>“Malfoy,” Harry lifts his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m me, remember? I don’t bloody want it, I’m not going to abuse it, I just need to cast it. It’s procedure—you’re still a criminal until you testify,” Harry says, tired. He wants to lie down.</p>
<p>Malfoy’s still pacing the small space between the kitchenette and the beds, looking highly agitated, not sparing Harry a second glance.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Harry says quietly. “You got the deal. You can take them down, I’m just here to make sure you get to.”</p>
<p>That seems to soothe his nerves a little as Malfoy stops in front of him, entirely too close, and his soft, sweet smell assaults Harry. He breathes in despite himself.</p>
<p>“Do it,” Malfoy says hoarsely. “I accept your conditions.” His eyes are the only thing that betray him, shining with renewed determination but a shadow of fear, too, almost unrecognisable in the deep, calm silver.</p>
<p>Harry extends his hand without thinking, he sometimes does it on instinct, and stops half an inch from the middle of Malfoy’s chest, focusing on the spell. He can feel the heat radiating from his body, extending to accept the magic Harry’s channelling into the spell. Wandless magic has got surprisingly easy in the last few years—Harry discovered he had a knack for it by accident and never really stopped, but only after Hermione made sure he’s not going to burn his own hand off. During a trip to India five years ago, they met some older witches and wizards who were taught to use their magic like that by their grandparents, and Harry has been fascinated with honing the skill ever since. Apparently, his little talent is a combination of genes, luck, and the exceptional magical capabilities he apparently possesses. It started with small things—Summoning a quill so as not to get up and distract himself from work, unlocking drawers when the key was nowhere to be found, casting a quick <i>Lumos</i> to find his glasses and wand in the middle of the night. At one point, Ron—or perhaps it was Hermione—pointed out that Harry had just Levitated a tray of tea with his wand still sitting on the coffee table. That day, Harry realised he hadn’t used his wand at home for weeks, instinctively letting his magic flow through his fingers, as easy as breathing, and the excitement, the feeling of <i>rightness</i> radiated warmth along his body like a sip of warm tea on a winter night.</p>
<p>Malfoy lets out a shaky gasp as Harry mutters the incantation, and looks down at his hand, almost touching but still keeping the distance, and his mouth opens around a question he doesn’t ask. Harry’s not sure how he would know the answer anyway.</p>
<p>When he’s done, Malfoy doesn’t say anything; he fetches his jacket and goes to the door, stopping with his hand on the door handle. “I… need some air,” he mutters.</p>
<p>“Sure,” Harry croaks.</p>
<p>This time, he doesn’t worry about Malfoy running off.</p><hr/>
<p>They don’t really revisit the topic when Malfoy comes back, just stay in the room until it’s lunchtime. Harry casts some subtle Glamours and a few Repelling Charms at the both of them and they go out to the little town centre for a supply run. Leaving the hotel for a while is like a breath of fresh air, Harry feels he can clear his head a little instead of staying cooped up with a brooding mobster and his own racing thoughts.</p>
<p>The weather is nice enough that they take a little stroll by some unspoken agreement—Malfoy is back to watching Muggles with barely contained fascination, and Harry just tries to enjoy the little pocket of peace for all that it’s worth, thinking about how perfect today would be for flying and how much better he would feel after a quick spin on his broom.</p>
<p>They reach a small town square, already starting to bustle with people going back from work and school and while it’s slightly unsafe, Harry can appreciate the advantages of blending into a crowd and becoming faceless for a little while. He takes a look around and is struck with how peaceful this nameless town actually is. Cast iron benches line the square, already bathed in the afternoon sun, a statue of some Muggle hero stands in the middle, proudly watching over the area as people walk around, engrossed in their business.</p>
<p>There’s a supermarket in the far corner and Harry beckons Malfoy to come with—they’re going to need some stuff, and that’s not just food. Malfoy, however, grimaces at the crowds of Muggles coming in and out and opens his mouth to say something, but Harry just raises a hand and tells him he can wait outside. He reckons if he gives Malfoy some space and shows him he’s not a prisoner chained to Harry wherever he goes, Malfoy might just be a tad less difficult in exchange, or so he hopes. The situation resembles a parent-rebel-teenager relationship and Harry isn’t sure whether it’s funny, or tragic, or both.</p>
<p>For once grateful for his substantial knowledge of the Muggle world, Harry navigates the store easily enough, getting them not only some food and drinks, but also a few essentials like toothbrushes and towels, just in case they end up in some lower-standard places. He snorts at the image of Malfoy having to deal with things as simple as brushing his teeth or hanging up his clothes without magic and immediately berates himself for finding it amusing.</p>
<p>He leaves the shops to find the street even busier than before, almost unusual for a town this size. Harry searches the crowd with growing alarm until he’s absolutely sure that Malfoy is nowhere in sight. Cursing under his breath, he walks around the whole damn place to see if he went into any of the stores but no luck. With a heavy sigh, Harry reaches out to the magic connecting him to Malfoy and tunes into the Surveillance Spell, knowing it’s justified but still uncomfortable with having to do it.</p>
<p>“How the fuck did you find me?” he hears Malfoy whisper, voice shaky with nerves.</p>
<p>Harry’s heart stops beating for a few seconds; he’s so quiet he barely even breathes, despite the spell being one-sided. Standing frozen in place, he slowly, carefully looks around but there’s no sight of Malfoy or his mystery companion. His heart racing, Harry wraps sweaty fingers around the Mokeskin pouch and slips into the back alley behind the store.</p>
<p>It’s become a virtue to have such a lot of experience spying on Draco Malfoy in the Invisibility Cloak, Harry thinks bitterly as he secures the fastening and makes sure he’s fully covered. He exits the alley and focuses on the spell, easily finding the connection—the voices are hard to discern, meaning they’re either underground or surrounded by Muggle appliances intercepting the magic. Harry thinks back to the café he spotted at the other side of the square earlier—it’s a perfect spot: private, not too crowded at this time of day, and close enough to slip away unnoticed.</p>
<p>He sees them through the large front window, hunched at a table in the very corner; it’s a smart move, he has to give them that—he wouldn’t have paid any attention if he didn’t know who he was looking for. Malfoy suddenly leans back and Harry finally recognises his companion—Blaise Zabini. He curses under his breath, trying to recall seeing the name in the Family’s files as several worst-case scenarios flash through his head. His instincts tell him to barge in there, wand blazing, Obliviate Zabini and drag Malfoy out by the scruff of his neck—what the fuck is he thinking? However, years of Auror work and a certain level of restraint Harry discovered he had developed with age stop him dead in his tracks. Seeing as Zabini isn’t exactly killing Malfoy, Harry decides to find a good vantage point, which ends up being an empty bench across the street and, with curiosity sparkling down his back, fully focuses on the monitoring spell Malfoy has clearly forgotten about.</p>
<p>“It’s good to see you, dear friend,” Zabini purrs, leaning back in his chair.</p>
<p>“Yes, long time no see, and all that,” Malfoy says urgently. “But I’m serious, Blaise, how?”</p>
<p>Zabini rolls his eyes. “Let’s just say my mother had a few interesting artefacts from before the war that she persuaded the nice Ministry man to give back,” he says in a bored tone. “Pity it was single-use only,” he sighs.</p>
<p>“You could get us both killed!” Malfoy hisses, casting a worried look through the window. For a second, he looks straight at Harry, making him start, and then Harry remembers Malfoy can’t see him, even though his gaze lingers. It transports him back onto the Hogwarts Express, years ago, and Harry can’t shake the feeling Malfoy somehow knows.</p>
<p>“Draco, nobody knows I’m here,” Zabini says with a serious expression. “I just need to ask you—what the <i>fuck</i> have you done? I hope you know they’re all looking for you, and not to send you to another orgy.” He talks quickly, brow furrowed in concern. “There’s a manhunt and more than a few <i>Avada Kedavra</i>s with your name on them.”</p>
<p>“That’s why Potter’s here,” says Malfoy with a strange expression. “But what really intrigues me is—why are <i>you</i> here?”</p>
<p>“So it <i>is</i> true—vacationing with Harry Potter himself, eh?” Zabini says with delight in his voice but then, his expression darkens. “Also, why am I here? I was worried! I thought you were dead! I basically performed a Dark bloody ritual to find you!” he says, reproach and concern etched into his face. “I want to help. Draco, there’s someone in the Ministry, I’m sure of it. Do you really trust the Aurors?”</p>
<p>“I <i>know</i> there is, why do you think I’m stuck with Potter watching me in my sleep?!” he hisses through clenched teeth and realisation dawns on Zabini’s face. “And fuck no, I don’t trust them,” Malfoy says in a low voice. “Don’t contact them, one can’t be sure which ones are corrupt and which ones are just cruel… Some would fit with our little Family like peas in a pod.”</p>
<p>Zabini is quiet for a few seconds, searching Malfoy’s face. “Draco. What happened? Are you alright?”</p>
<p>Malfoy runs a hand over his face. “When they were checking my testimony— In the holding cell. The two they left me with…”</p>
<p>Harry’s stomach sinks; the two Aurors he summoned to take Malfoy to the holding cell. They’re new, he doesn’t even remember their names—at the time, he found it rather fitting that they resembled Crabbe and Goyle, flanking Malfoy from both sides, just like back in school. If there was something about them—something unsettling, something not right—Harry was once again blinded by his own annoyance, by his conviction that Malfoy was lying. His heart races as he listens.</p>
<p>Zabini’s hand slides over Malfoy’s on the table and Malfoy recoils. “Did they hurt you?”</p>
<p>He scoffs. “Hardly. Just needed to reassure themselves about the size of their balls, I reckon,” he says and rolls his eyes at Zabini’s glare. “Just roughed me up a bit while calling me pretty, behaviour typical for cavemen and heterosexuals,” he says haughtily.</p>
<p>“Jesus, Draco,” Zabini breathes, voicing Harry’s exact thoughts. “Are you… okay?”</p>
<p>“Well I’m not coughing up blood anymore so that’s an upside,” he says testily, and Harry squirms on the bench, guilt clutching heavy at his lungs. “Cunning fuckers, they left the face intact so nobody saw.”</p>
<p>“You wouldn’t complain anyway, you’re too proud.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m trying to do the right thing, I’m not suicidal!”</p>
<p>“And then there’s Potter,” Zabini says, a strange tone lacing his voice.</p>
<p>“He’s… not like them.”</p>
<p>“Oh my god—”</p>
<p>Malfoy’s face is flushed with agitation even from a distance. “Blaise, trust me when I say this, Potter is the only good one in a basket of spoiled eggs. He’s— He’s different. That’s why I went to him.”</p>
<p>“Draco—”</p>
<p>“He could have done anything he wanted with me and no-one would ever know,” Malfoy says and looks through the window again. “And—as much as it pains me to admit it—” He rolls his eyes. “He’s been nothing but kind. And—cherry on top—he is now tasked with keeping me alive until the trials,” Malfoys adds with a smirk.</p>
<p>Zabini stares at him in silence. “Oh god, you’re either going to kill each other—”</p>
<p>“Listen, Blaise,” Malfoy cuts him off. “We have a plan and it involves laying low until the trial—there’s a mole in the DMLE and whether we like it or not, Potter’s side is the safest place I can be.”</p>
<p>“Does that brilliant plan of yours involve putting your dick in him as well?”</p>
<p>Harry chokes on his saliva under the Cloak and quietly thanks Merlin and Morgana none of the Muggles heard him. He chooses to believe what Zabini just said is some kind of a Slytherin inside joke, and tries not to think about all of Malfoy’s lewd, shameless comments, or his ridiculous, messy hair, or his black leather gun holster. The whole comment is just ridiculous, and Harry can’t imagine he would ever cross that line with a witness, and Malfoy no less.</p>
<p>“<i>Excuse me</i>?” Malfoy nearly squeaks but remembers to keep quiet. “That’s <i>none</i> of your fucking business. And, for the record, I <i>didn’t<i>, and I don’t intend to.”</i></i></p>
<p>
  
    “But you want to.” He shakes his head. “Just like my grandmother used to say, <i>Quando il diavolo ti accarezza, vuole l’anima</i>.”
  
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Oh, spare me— What I want is to keep my bloody life so just come off of it, for fuck’s sake.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Zabini squints at him. “Protective. You’re never protective, not outside of your circle. I know that look, Draco, this is trouble.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Malfoy licks his lips. “Listen when this is over I will be exonerated and don’t think for one second I won’t abuse this privilege to <i>make. You. Suffer</i>.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Zabini just snorts. “What makes you so sure the DMLE isn’t less than honest? How can you know they won’t fuck Potter over, too?” he asks. “Listen, the Family has their people there, too… Do you think they would hesitate if there’s a chance to get rid of Potter?”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“What are you saying?” Malfoy asks off-handedly but Harry can hear the unmistakable worried note to his voice.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I’m saying there’s something big in the making. I don’t know, they keep it to a small circle, keep talking about ‘The Informant’… And if they’re planning to take over the Ministry— Draco, not even Potter will be able to save the both of you.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Harry processes the information with a heavy stomach, anger slowly creeping under his skin. Betrayal isn’t a feeling he’s too familiar with, especially having friends like Ron and Hermione—loyal to a fault, unrelenting in their support and honesty. And this… He goes over all the people he remembers from the Ministry, hundreds of nameless faces he has passed by at work—it could be any of these people and the only thing Harry can do is stay where he is and hope the traitor will be exposed.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Malfoy is quiet for a bit before looking at his friend. “Blaise. I need to ask you this…”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Shit, Draco.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I know it’s a lot. Don’t—don’t put yourself In danger. Just… keep your eyes and ears open, yes? If you hear a name, an alias, if you see or hear anything at all—”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I won’t be able to find you again,” Blaise says. “This is dangerous enough.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“No,” Malfoy shakes his head. “No, of course not. But if you have anything, go straight to Weasley.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>That takes Zabini aback. “Seriously? Ron Weasley?”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yes,” Malfoy says darkly. “He’s the only one Potter fully trusts and he’s so stupidly loyal he cannot possibly be the mole. So it’s Weasley and Weasley <i>only</i>. Preferably on the down low, through private means.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Zabini lets out a long, heavy sigh. “All right.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Do you understand? This is important—”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yes, Draco,” he grits out.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“All right. Good, all right.” Malfoy nods absently, running a hand through his hair. He glances at Zabini. “Don’t look at me like that.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Draco. Don’t be stupid.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“I’m not stupid.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“You’re stupid for Potter, that I can see. It’s like nothing’s changed…” he says and pauses, as if deliberating what to say next. “Don’t let it go too far. Have your fun if you must but—”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Blaise,” says Malfoy, a warning ringing clear in his voice.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He raises his hands defensively. “Fine.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Malfoy looks through the window. “You should go.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Draco—”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Someone will see you.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“All right,” he says and stands up, dusting off his jacket. “Don’t get killed, or I might miss you.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Remember. Only Weasley.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Yeah.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>With that, Zabini leaves the café and Harry watches him slip into the nearest alley, probably to Disapparate. He’s itching all over to do something, to stop him, maybe even arrest him, his wand almost vibrates as if it wants to spring into action just as much as its owner. But for now, he waits, watching Malfoy at the table—he covers his face with his hands for a few seconds, takes a few breaths and leaves the café as well. Harry rarely gets to see or hear a version of Malfoy untarnished by their shared past and he’s fascinated to see the same man who usually just sneers at him, who laughs in his face and makes inappropriate jokes, suddenly looking scared. It makes him disarmingly human and Harry isn’t prepared to learn that everything they’ve gone through so far has affected Malfoy quite as much. He’s not prepared to accept the fact that while Malfoy’s feelings might be complicated and encased in a solid shell of snark and impudence, they exist, on a plane Harry’s not privy to, in a place Harry’s not yet sure how to find.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>There are also all the things Malfoy and Zabini said about him and it’s too confusing to unpack, to peel off all the layers of meaning that seemed to escape him, just like it usually happens when eavesdropping on two old friends talking in private. The case of Malfoy being maybe-possibly-somewhat attracted to him is another Dungbomb Harry refuses to touch with a ten-foot pole. While usually the first to break the rules, stir trouble, and question his surroundings, Harry can’t quite bring himself to disrupt the relative peace between him and Malfoy. It’s just how Malfoy is, with all his insolence and immodesty—a self-proclaimed prince of debauchery whose newest favourite trick is to keep toeing the line of Harry’s expectations and soak up his resulting unease like it was the finest champagne.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Harry finds himself resolving to take Zabini’s advice—don’t do anything stupid, keep your eyes open, don’t get killed.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He jumps off the bench as soon as the bell by the door chimes over Malfoy’s head. He doesn’t get as far as ten feet, when Harry grabs him by the shoulder and drags him into the same alley Zabini disappeared into. Malfoy yelps, trying to wiggle out of his grip, so Harry has to cover his mouth and pull him under the Cloak. It’s more than a little cramped—the Invisibility Cloak that could once conceal three teenagers is nowhere near enough for two grown men, and Harry can feel his own breath tickling his knuckles as he speaks.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he whisper-shouts at Malfoy, watching his pupils dilate with realisation. There’s that saccharine, milky smell again, too, and it’s impossible to smell like that with just the hotel soap they both used.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Malfoy raises his hand and gestures chaotically around Harry’s own, still covering his mouth. Harry graces him with an intense glare and slowly removes it. “And here I thought someone was accosting me in a dark alley.” He smirks. “I’m ticking all my fantasies off the list lately.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Is this a joke to you?” Harry hisses. “You could have been recognised. Zabini could have been working with them—”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“How do you know Blaise was—” He stops mid-sentence and looks at Harry in horror. “That fucking spell.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“The spell did its job since you can’t sit on your bloody arse for two minutes,” Harry grits out, nearly brushing noses with Malfoy.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Up close, he notices how eerily pale Malfoy is and how exhausted he looks, the bags under his eyes almost purple; suddenly, Harry deflates, realising he’s still gripping Malfoy by the collar. He lets go, takes a look around and pulls the Cloak off of them, feeling tense, his skin crawling with a strange kind of electricity he can’t really explain. Malfoy’s face is slightly pink and he’s breathing a little heavily, glaring at Harry with dark, glistening eyes.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“We’re going back to the hotel,” Harry mutters. “Walk.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>As soon as they enter the room, Malfoy disappears into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. There are some muffled sounds: water running, some random cracks and slams, and there’s something else, but Harry’s too scared to tune into the spell to listen—Malfoy probably still feels his privacy is violated and there is no way Harry can make him understand the spell is for emergency situations only. With that being said, eavesdropping on Malfoy while he’s in the bathroom does not count as an emergency in any way, unless the prat slips in the shower and breaks his neck. Which, Harry hopes, better bloody not happen.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He pretends to be engrossed in an old magazine he snatched from the reception as soon as Malfoy reemerges, fully dressed and surrounded by billows of steam and the fresh smell of a long shower. Harry keeps sneaking glances, his thoughts racing.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Malfoy’s a thunderstorm of contradictions. While Harry might not be an exceptional judge of character, he likes to think he’s not too awful at figuring people out, and yet, Draco Malfoy remains a mystery on too many levels for Harry to be comfortable with. He’s an incorrigible, licentious madman who keeps making sexual jokes but gets agitated when Harry stands too close. He has bags under his eyes but tosses and turns all night until Harry falls asleep and can’t hear it anymore. He’s lewd, sharp as a razor, and charming as Amortentia. He claims to hate everything Muggle but the sweets Harry bought in the vending machine outside disappeared from Harry’s bed when he was taking a shower. He’s a part of a crime family but decided to end it, and instead of hunting him, Harry has to protect him, trying to navigate the blizzard of oddities Malfoy seems to bring wherever he goes.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He’s trouble incarnate and Harry feels his curiosity coil tightly in his chest, ready to burst any minute.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Malfoy still sleeps on top of his bed like it’s a coffin, and still refuses to wear anything but his suit and dress shirt which now bear signs of a poorly-cast wandless <i>Scourgify</i>. Harry feels he’s close to discovering why that is, but he needs to wait until tomorrow morning, maybe afternoon, just to be sure. He doesn’t breach the topic of <i>eight more weeks</i> lingering in the air like a bad stench—perhaps sleeping on it might soften the blow, enough that they can talk about it and, hopefully, establish some rules.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>It’s ridiculous, and unheard-of—Harry Potter establishing rules he intends to follow.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“How much did you hear?” Malfoy asks abruptly, looking at the ceiling.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>“Enough.”</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>He sighs and curls himself into a ball and soon, Harry can hear soft, rhythmic breaths indicating that Malfoy has fallen asleep.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>They don’t talk much for the rest of the day. Harry orders some supper from a Muggle restaurant and marks it as a success—Malfoy doesn’t say anything about it, neither a complaint nor praise, just eats his share and busies himself with leafing through one of the books Harry’s fished out from his pouch. It’s <i>Magical Ailments and Diseases</i> by Wilhelmina Snakebark and Harry wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the plan in his head, already formed and ready to go.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Late at night, when Malfoy finally falls asleep, Harry goes to the bathroom and pulls out his phone.</i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  Unknown Number [23:42]<br/>
<i>Ron,<br/>
I have a favour to ask. Find out which Aurors were in charge of taking Malfoy to the holding cell after he gave his statement. Make Kingsley sign a permission slip to question them under Veritaserum, criminal case grade. I don’t care how, just do it. You’ll have to trust me on this one. Do it the right way, take a witness and make a report.<br/>
Ask them what went down after they got there. I need to know.<br/>
Harry</i>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Quando il diavolo ti accarezza, vuole l’anima - When the devil caresses you, he wants the soul (Italian proverb)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry fidgets all morning, waiting for a message from London.</p><p>He doesn’t tell Malfoy what’s going on—he would never take that leap and risk sharing his suspicions before getting a solid confirmation. So as soon as they wake up, the only thing Harry can do is to fidget. He spills his tea, distracted with dark thoughts obstinately buzzing in his mind, trying to swat them away like flies that just wouldn’t get the hint. He shovels down his breakfast like he’s been starved and only slows down at Malfoy’s disgusted expression from across the table. He takes off his jacket with too much force, pulling off a button, throws things instead of putting them down and nearly rips out the pages of the magazine he tries to distract himself with.</p><p>Finally, after Harry checks his phone for what has to be the hundredth time since they woke up, Malfoy snaps.</p><p>“All right, Potter, what is the <i>matter</i> with you today?” he asks, closing the books he’s currently reading with a loud smack. Harry stiffens, refusing to meet his eyes. “It can’t be me, I am delightful company,” he says off-handedly, “so what is wrong with you?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Harry grits out, watching Malfoy carefully for any signs. There should be something, an indicator that Harry’s instincts are not mistaken, but Malfoy looks perfectly at ease with a raised eyebrow, elegantly spread in his chair.</p><p>“You’re not a child, so I’m not going to tell you to take a nap,” Malfoy says, sitting up, always ready to have some fun at Harry’s expense. “We just ate, so it can’t be hungry-moody— Although the food so far has been substandard at best,” he adds with a smirk, apparently unable to stop himself. Harry’s jaw clenches and a small part of him wants his suspicions to be true. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d just recommend a proper wank—how long has it been, Auror Potter?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, tapping his lower lip with a slender finger, and Harry doesn’t plan on giving him one. “Would you say that it helps? I, for one, find the act soothing, when all is said and done, don’t you think?” His white teeth flash in a teasing grin. “Of course, I usually have someone on hand, some pretty thing that’s willing to help me out—”</p><p>“Shut up,” Harry mutters, ignoring the images Malfoy’s constant babbling puts inside his head.</p><p>In all honesty, Harry thinks a little alone time would solve a few of his problems, at least the ones of the physical nature. He remembers that first night in the shower and takes a deep breath to calm himself—there’s no use in going down that road. He’s an Auror and he will be on duty non-stop for the next eight weeks—he can’t let himself loosen at the seams, can’t sacrifice even an ounce of his usual vigilance to entertain any needs that don’t lead him towards the goal. From the outside, it would seem spartan, if not plain eccentric, but Harry tends to hyperfocus and at the moment, all his focus is sharp as a razor and aimed at keeping a witness alive so the bad guys live out their days in Azkaban. He still has to breach the subject of rules with Malfoy, to keep that uninhibited temperament in check, and to keep some small part of himself locked away, too. He and Malfoy are always nothing if not volatile and in their case, Harry suspects any rule-bending would end up shattering them completely, leaving the two of them rolling in the debris in a masochistic act of defiance.</p><p>He thinks about the Surveillance Spell and the wonders it might work if his professional morals were anything but strict, he wonders if Malfoy really puts his money where his mouth is, if the repercussions are worth the thrill—they’re not, not in Harry’s world, not when the stakes are so high. Harry has decided to be methodical about it, cautious and calculating, leaving no room for mistakes or slip-ups. It’s not about Malfoy, and definitely not about Harry—it’s about one of many attempts to fix the world, ones that sometimes feel like scrubbing a hallway with a toothbrush but still keep him sane.</p><p>Malfoy chuckles darkly. “No need to get so agitated, Auror Potter, we all indulge ourselves from time to time—and as primal as it is, it’s in our nature as adult, virile specimen—”</p><p>As if on cue, Harry’s phone vibrates sharply against the table. He swipes it in a blink and walks into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He can hear some indignant yelps and a cascade of offended babble but as soon as the door closes, Harry unlocks the screen.</p><p>Ron [13:29]<br/><i>Harry,<br/>Shit. I don’t know if Malfoy tipped you off (though I find that hard to believe) or if you had a hunch but… Kingsley fired those Aurors on the spot. Mate, it was bad. I can’t believe I’m saying this but maybe check if he’s all right? Look for internal bleeding, he might have a cracked rib, too.<br/>Hope you didn’t kill the prat by now (had to balance it out, sorry)<br/>Ron<br/>PS. Is that what some Aurors just do? Makes you wonder.</i></p><p>He flops down onto the closed toilet seat and lets out a breath he’s been keeping ever since he overheard Malfoy and Zabini talk. It’s absurd, to agonise over spilt milk like that, over an incident that probably is not even an isolated case, Harry thinks—and it's not about Malfoy, he tells himself, it’s not. But it’s not spilt milk either, it’s blood, on Harry’s case, and hands, and conscience, and besides the constant guilt he carries with him like a medal of honour, poking him in the chest with its rusty needle, an ineffable sense of shame tucks itself right next to it. He tries to search his memory for a bad feeling, for the instinctual feeling of <i>wrong</i> he should have got right from the start, but there’s nothing, just the consuming annoyance and mistrust of Malfoy; it’s not the first time Harry got carried away, blinded by his own convictions.</p><p>He lifts himself up and goes for the door; time for damage control.</p><p>He comes out, teeth clenched painfully, and Summons his wand from the nightstand. It’s peculiar how Malfoy never made a move to snatch it, to put his cunning to use and get what he needs through his usual shady methods.</p><p>“Take off your shirt,” Harry says, startling Malfoy out of the chair.</p><p>Malfoy actually <i>snorts</i>. “Excuse me?” He crosses the room, walks around Harry like a predator circling a prey that’s a match for him, calculating the odds with an amused arch of his brow.</p><p>Harry stays calm, unmoving, his arms casually dropped by his sides, fingers tingling with the slightest brush of magic. “You heard me.”</p><p>“Auror Potter, how absolutely crass for a public servant.” Mafloy shakes his head, crossing his arms in defiance. “And here I thought that an unexpected, ghastly bout of stomach cramps, or something of the sort, had driven you to storm out so abruptly from our previous conversation, but apparently, it has turned you quite randy, if I can say so myself—”</p><p>“Malfoy,” Harry growls, his patience running thin. “Shirt. Off.”</p><p>He turns to Harry once again, mouth curved into a slight pout. “To be honest, however, I imagined something rather more sensual, you, me, a bottle of expensive champagne, some Celestina Warbeck in the background…”</p><p>Harry comes up to him, slowly, seeing Malfoy’s whole body stiffen just a fraction, trapped between Harry and the wall. He lifts his hand and, looking Malfoy straight in the eyes, puts his hand over his flank and squeezes softly. Malfoy recoils with a hiss; he backs up to the wall, nearly knocking a framed picture off of it, and Harry sees that assiduously concealed pain, with no permission to show on his pale face, stamped down in a blink of an eye. The only thing that betrays Malfoy is a harsh breath he lets slip, and his fists, clenched so hard they’re a tone paler than the rest of his skin.</p><p>“That’s what I thought,” Harry murmurs, trying to control his breathing. “Take off the fucking shirt.”</p><p>It should simply be clinical—they both know what’s happening. A crack in Malfoy’s smooth attitude should mean a point for Harry. But then, he helplessly watches the tousled fringe fall into Malfoy’s eyes, and it subtly grazes the surface of what they’ve been doing so far; as far from objective as it's possible to be. The moment feels like bending over a Pensieve, just a fraction of an inch too close before it sucks you in, sending ripples across the still mirror. Malfoy nearly rips his jacket off, shrugging out of it while he mutters profanities under his breath. He tugs on his shirt buttons, working his way down the fine cotton that looks perfectly opaque and light as silk at the same time.</p><p>He’s down to the last button and Harry’s pulse quickens.</p><p>Malfoy stands before him, shirt hanging on his elbows, and looks to a distant point above Harry’s ear. His torso is covered in bruises; most are already devoid of the usual angry, purple-red tint, though there’s still some faded, dark spatters of broken blood vessels around the marks. Most of them are centred around the ribs, but there’s a particularly nasty one on Malfoy’s abdomen, where it’s lightly dusted with the coarse, dark-blond hair growing under his navel. Harry’s mouth tastes acrid as he looks him over, positive that if he commanded Malfoy to turn around, he would find the same bruising around his lower back; the kidneys are a sensitive area and one well-placed hit can bring an opponent to the ground as fast as any spell. All of the bruises are large and soft around the edges, the result of blunt force, like the tip of a heavy, standard Auror issue boot. He takes a step closer, inspecting the strange discolourations scattered without a pattern and immediately realises they’re Stinger marks. A mean way to cast them, too, the intent visible in every scab already struggling to heal.</p><p>Harry can’t help but notice some older scars, the tissue already a smooth, pearly pink, the thinnest vellum stretched over raised flesh. There are three he recognises immediately—the longest one, stretching from Malfoy’s collarbone and curling right under the dip of his waist, and two shorter ones slashing across it, one right under his pectoral, and the other just slightly grazing his nipple, the light-brown flesh a little faded where the scar licks at its edge.</p><p>There’s no reversing that damage and Harry doesn’t expect Malfoy would react well, were he to bring it up. The fresh injuries are a good distraction as Harry stares and stares, his stomach caving in more and more, until he finds his voice, just enough to force a hoarse whisper. “Fuck…”</p><p>It seems to shake Malfoy out of his silence as he scrambles to wrap himself in his shirt again. “Show’s over. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”</p><p>He tries to side-step him but Harry’s quicker, blocking his way while maintaining a distance—any touch would just cause him more pain. “The Aurors did it,” Harry more states than asks.</p><p>“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”</p><p>Harry wants to touch the bruises. To help somehow, to mend what he can; and while he’s not the one who did it, inexplicably, he feels responsible, hating the instinct at the same time. He wants to trace a finger along the Sectumsempra scars, too, to feel the sinewy ripple of evidence of the darkness inside him that perhaps only Malfoy knows how to ignite. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks abruptly, his mouth dry.</p><p>“Oh, yes, because everybody would believe my word over the Aurors’, that’s just fucking rich,” he snaps, wrapping the shirt tighter around his middle.</p><p>“They would have extracted your memories, and theirs, too, they would—”</p><p>“We both know memories can be tampered with, Potter. And!” He raises a hand as soon as Harry’s mouth opens. “Ah, ah, don’t even start on Veritaserum, I’ve only just admitted to myself that you do possess some semblance of intelligence, after all.”</p><p>“Did they <i>Crucio</i> you?” Harry asks quietly.</p><p>Malfoy sighs, a little impatiently. “There are other spells, Potter, that can cause pain when applied with imagination.”</p><p>“They could have killed you,” Harry hisses.</p><p>Malfoys hums thoughtfully. “No, that wasn’t their intent, wouldn’t want to get into trouble over some worthless Death Eater scum, now would they?” Harry looks at him in puzzlement and Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe I have to explain this to you, don’t they check your wands?”</p><p>“Well…”</p><p>“Well?” he asks in a mocking tone. “Doesn’t look very noble if a Priori Incantatem lights up with an illegal spell, does it? Don’t want too much blood on their hands, just a little, to spice things up—”</p><p>“Malfoy, this is a gross overstepping and they would have been punished—”</p><p>“Those poor Aurors, just doing their jobs,” he says with an ironic pout and then, his face hardens. “I had it coming. It’s nothing that won’t heal with time.”</p><p>“How did you even function, this looks really bad—” Harry reaches out to touch the scabs but Malfoy recoils with a huff.</p><p>“I tried casting some minor spells to dull the pain,” he mutters.</p><p>“But I have your wand,” says Harry, “and I don’t recall you ever casting wandless.”</p><p>“Well, we can’t all be Golden Boys, imagine how dull the world would be,” Malfoy says off-handedly and starts to button his shirt.</p><p>Harry grabs his wrist, careful not to touch any of the cuts and bruises. “Oh, no, no, no. Sit,” he says coldly, jerking his head in the direction of the bed. Malfoy stares at Harry’s fingers wrapped around his hand and tries to free himself, softly at first, but Harry tightens his hold. Malfoy isn’t weak or frail by any standard, he’s quite fit actually, with tight, tense muscle curving along his chest and arms, going down his back and thighs, visible even under his trousers. He has the slender physique of a Quidditch player, fast and agile, with reserves of hidden strength and probably the stamina to match. Harry wonders how and when the slim, porcelain lordling he remembers from school turned into the man before him. He supposes he’s changed as well; Auror training, while strenuous and boring at times, has filled him out where needed and Harry himself isn’t a lanky, dark-skinned boy with knobbly knees anymore. He uses that strength, gently but determinedly, steering Malfoy to the bed.</p><p>Malfoy isn’t too happy with being manhandled and in all his hissy squirming, Harry accidentally elbows him in the side, making him groan in pain through clenched teeth.</p><p>“For god’s sake, Malfoy, you’re in pain,” Harry growls. “Let me fucking help you, you stubborn—”</p><p>“See, if you would just stop fucking <i>touching me</i>, I wouldn’t be!” he says, breathless and a little strained, and Harry already knows the injuries aren’t just external, not with Malfoy’s choked gasps from every single touch.</p><p>He waves his hand and a gentle, barely-there pulse of magic softly pushes Malfoy onto the bed. Harry’s unperturbed by his indignant huffs and puffs—he needs him functioning if they run into trouble, he needs to make sure Malfoy is taken care of. It’s not a game, what they’re doing, it’s a serious criminal case and Harry’s job, first and foremost, is to make sure that the witness arrives at the trial in one piece. It’s also the least he can do, knowing Malfoy would have been fine if it weren’t for Harry’s own poor judgement.</p><p>“Sit the fuck down and stop acting like a child,” he says. “I have some salves and potions in my bag. I’m no Healer but I can check the extent of your injuries and make sure you heal properly.”</p><p>“You’re not a Healer and yet you give a diagnosis,” Malfoy says dramatically, his shirt parting a little as he relaxes into the bed. He smirks. “Just admit you want to take a closer look at my devastating body,” he purrs, propping himself up on his arms and letting the shirt fall open. </p><p>It’s becoming somewhat predictable, the way Malfoy deflects any topic that’s even remotely difficult or unpleasant with innuendos and flirtations, his mask slipping on like a second skin. Harry should be annoyed but the only thing that he can think about is what happened to Malfoy over the past years to make him like that, what other bad things he had to brush off like they were nothing—that curiosity is a risky thing to entertain but Harry finds himself drawn to the man like a moth to a flame anyway.</p><p>“If you mean <i>devastated</i>, then yes, I do need to take a look,” he quips, Summoning his pouch and fishing out all the potions he might need—Blood-Replenishing Potion, painkillers, Dittany, some Murtlap Essence and a Nogtail intestine balm to prevent clotting. The tiny vial of Dreamless Sleep that he picks up after a second of deliberation is a last resort, in case the process turns out to be more of a strain than either of them expects it to be.</p><p>He Levitates the bottles onto the bedspread with a soft clink and sees Malfoy side-eyeing them with trepidation. Drawing his wand, Harry sits down next to him and tilts his head with an unamused sigh. Malfoy finally lets his shirt slide off his shoulders and onto the floor and his moves are more fluid now, calmer. He doesn’t say another word, just sits and watches, taking long, measured breaths and smelling like almond milk.</p><p>Harry starts with the angry-red Stinger marks, casting simple Healing spells over each of them and watching as the inflammation slowly subsides. They turn just a faint pink and without thinking, Harry applies some Dittany to every discolouration. He hears a soft gasp and realises he could have just given him the ointment, that he didn’t have to put it on Malfoy’s wounds himself but it feels right for an inexplicable reason so Harry doesn’t overthink it. After those are taken care of, Harry gets to the bruises that fade quickly with the help of the Murtlap and Nogtail balms. Malfoy is eerily quiet throughout the whole process, keeping his hands palms-up on his knees.</p><p>Careful not to touch or even acknowledge Malfoy’s Sectumsempra scars, Harry checks again to see if all the superficial damage is fixed; then he checks if there’s any internal trauma and patches it up to the best of his abilities. He casts two diagnostic spells he knows might help and Malfoy must know them, eyes lighting up in recognition. Malfoy tenses a little as the magic takes effect with a soft but noticeable chime of the spells in the deadly-silent room; the charms point Harry to two fractured ribs and a small internal haemorrhage that should heal nicely on its own with a dose of a Blood-Replenisher to stimulate the healing.</p><p>Malfoy wiggles his fingers experimentally, letting out a long exhale. They both know what’s coming—Harry has to apply some coolant to his chest to minimise the pain and then, mend the broken bone with an Episkey.</p><p>“This is going to hurt,” he murmurs, putting a generous amount of peppermint oil over Malfoy’s left rib, under his pectoral. His skin is unexpectedly warm and there’s a slight flush to his chest that Harry blames on all the healing he’s already done.</p><p>“You don’t fucking say,” Malfoy croaks.</p><p>“I need to mend your ribs, arsehole,” Harry says matter-of-factly. “Can’t imagine how you even breathed. I’ve had a few broken myself, and it sucks.”</p><p>Malfoy doesn’t say anything, just clenches his jaw with a steadying breath. “Go on then, <i>fix me</i>,” he says with a hint of sarcasm and Harry wonders what that’s about.</p><p>At the first lick of magic spilling from Harry’s wand and twirling around Malfoy’s injury, he gasps and slams his hand down and over Harry’s free one, wrapping his fingers tightly around Harry’s wrist, squeezing it so hard, his knuckles turn white.</p><p>“Shit,” Harry breathes. “I know, yeah? Just one or two more and the first rib’s done,” he says quietly, and he doesn’t really know why he’s comforting Malfoy, but he’s resolved to see this through the end without making things worse.</p><p>In the end, he has to cast three more times until the Diagnostic Charm doesn’t find any signs of lingering fracture. Healing complete, Harry curses the two brutes to the fiery pits of hell for making a sport out of beating virtually defenceless people bloody. He briefly wonders if Malfoy considered using his gun at the time but stifles the thought—it’s neither important nor relevant, and untangling Malfoy’s veiled motivations can only result in a headache and a deep-seated need to knock back a tumbler of whiskey.</p><p>Whiskey, he thinks. He should have given Malfoy some whiskey, and what a mobster thing that would have been to do while patching someone up.</p><p>When Harry moves to the other rib, he’s certain Malfoy’s about to cut off the blood circulation in his left hand and he can hear a soft whimper as soon as he mutters the incantation.</p><p>“Wait, fuck, wait.” Harry bites his lip, imagining how badly it must hurt. The thing most Healers don’t tell you is that magically accelerated bone-mending hurts almost as much as breaking them. He can see a few droplets of sweat beading at Malfoy’s temples as he tries to play off the agony with long, calm breaths—what he’s forgetting, though, is that Harry had so many injuries in his life; he knows exactly how painful it is.</p><p>To know Malfoy’s reaction before even proposing it is a poor victory but Harry says it anyway. “I can try another way. With, er”—he swallows—“my hands.”</p><p>He doesn’t tell Malfoy he’s generally pants at Healing Charms. He doesn’t tell him he used to go weeks with bruises and put Muggle plasters on every cut he’d got before discovering he <i>could</i> actually do Healing, just… wandless. And, to Harry’s utter astonishment, once he had learned how to channel his magic and connect it to the source of an injury, it felt brilliant to be able to do. According to Hermione, it’s an old, primal branch of magic, used back before wands were even invented, and still practised in some parts of the world. Channelling the magic flesh-to-flesh is supposed to ease the transition, and some old books vaguely hint at Core Magic and eye contact playing a part. Harry doesn’t really care about the technicalities as long as it does its job in keeping him out of Mungo’s for as long as possible.</p><p>“Good grief, <i>healing hands</i>? Is there anything you can’t do?” Malfoy’s voice is still strained but apparently, he’s never in too much pain to treat Harry with a spectacular sneer. “How do you do it anyway?”</p><p>“I— I’m not sure, it just works for me,” Harry admits, feeling uneasy. He’s never done it to someone else, only himself, and hopes he won’t make it any worse.</p><p>“First you undress me, now you’re demanding to put your <i>magic hands</i> on me, Auror Potter, so full of surprises—”</p><p>Harry feels his face burn. “Listen, you fucker, I’m trying to help—”</p><p>“Fine!” Malfoy cuts him off. “If there’s a chance you’ll stop butchering me with that wand, then be my guest,” he says petulantly as if <i>he</i> is the one doing the kindness here.</p><p>Harry clenches his jaw. “Fine,” he says and re-positions himself opposite Malfoy, one leg hanging off the bed. “I’m not saying it won’t hurt, but it will probably hurt less,” he clarifies.</p><p>“That’s reassuring,” says Malfoy, shooting Harry a fake smile.</p><p>“All right,” says Harry, slowly extending his right hand, “I’ll try to mend the other rib, yeah?”</p><p>Malfoy nods sharply, eyes transfixed on the thin scar still visible on Harry’s hand—<i>I must not tell lies</i>—he probably doesn’t know how Harry got it but doesn’t ask, even though his eyes trace the discoloured letters with curiosity.</p><p>Slowly, Harry brushes the tips of his fingers at the edges of Malfoy’s ribs and Malfoy jumps with a hiss.</p><p>“I haven’t started yet,” Harry says.</p><p>“Your hands are cold,” he mutters.</p><p>“Stop squirming,” says Harry and in a bold move, cups his whole palm over the fractured rib and closes his eyes. He focuses on his intent, picturing the broken bone, targeting the source of pain and feeling a warm, pulsing orb of energy just beneath Malfoy’s skin, reaching out to him and yielding under his spell. He hears another gasp, softer this time, and Malfoy instinctively puts his hand over his shoulder, squeezing lightly, letting out long, deep breaths.</p><p>Encouraged with the milder reaction, Harry palms at Malfoy’s side more firmly, feeling the fine bone under the pads of his fingers, and focuses on the magic flowing from his core and slowly spreading, banishing the pain and filling in the cracks of the fracture. He risks a glance up and Malfoy’s hand goes a little higher, fingers now digging into the soft place where Harry’s neck meets his shoulder, Malfoy’s thumb grazing his Adam's apple. As soon as their eyes meet, Harry feels a renewed surge of power seep through his fingers, a red glow illuminating the pale skin under his hand, so bright he can <i>see</i> Malfoy’s ribs underneath. He lets out a soft <i>oh</i>, and he could swear there are sparks dancing between them as Harry feels the soft crackle of bone bending to his will and mending back together.</p><p>There’s no fanfare when he’s done, he can simply feel that it’s enough, some foreign magic thrumming anew through the warm body next to his, and Harry pauses at the realisation it must be Malfoy’s core, evidently pleased with its host brought back to health. Malfoy’s face is flushed, his fringe is sticking to his forehead, and he’s biting his lip that’s already red and worried under his teeth. All in all, Malfoy looks completely debauched and Harry’s thoughts go to places they should steer clear of for multiple reasons but mostly due to the fact Malfoy just had two of his ribs magically mended.</p><p>If they were in St Mungo’s, they’d let Malfoy kick back with a shot of a hospital-grade painkiller and some gentle muscle relaxant while they’re at it—they are, however, in a hotel in the middle of nowhere and Harry can only offer an alcohol-based Devil’s Claw Draught and a few drops of Dreamless Sleep mixed into Malfoy’s tea.</p><p>Malfoy notices he’s still clutching Harry’s clavicle and hastily lets go of him, scrambling to find his discarded shirt. “You seem… disturbed.”</p><p>Harry is, truly, for reasons he struggles to file and divide in his head. “That my colleagues torture people in custody?” he finally asks. “Can you blame me?” He gets up to sort out the opened jars and bottles of potions and puts them away. With a wave of his hand, two mugs fly out of the cupboard as Harry walks over to the kettle and puts it on.</p><p>“Oh, pft, it was hardly torture,” Malfoys scoffs, standing in front of the mirror, shirt in hand, examining Harry’s handiwork. “The big manly brutes had their fun. I’ve had worse.”</p><p>Harry stops what he’s doing, clenching a fist over the edge of the counter. “Don’t— Don’t fucking turn this into a joke. That doesn’t make it okay.”</p><p>There’s a pause and no sounds come for the other side of the room, not even the rustle of fabric as Malfoy stands, unmoving. “My world has a different definition of <i>okay</i>, Potter,” he says quietly and Harry catches him absently running his hand over his ribs and lightly pressing his fingertips to the now faded marks. His face softens just a fraction and Harry quickly turns around.</p><p>“I—” He trails off, startled by the loud click of the kettle. “I’m making tea, I can add a few drops of Dreamless Sleep into yours, should knock you out for a while,” he says distractedly, still unable to shake off the magic buzzing under his skin, the warmth that’s anchored itself with little needles right under his skin and wonders if Malfoy can feel it too. “There are also the balms I used, I can leave them in the bathroom if you need some more.”</p><p>“I… yes,” Malfoy says in a strange voice. “Thank you, I’m— Grateful. For what you did,” he says hastily and retreats to the bathroom without addressing any of the thoughts racing through Harry’s mind.</p><p>When he’s back, Malfoy finds his now lukewarm tea on the counter and raises an eyebrow—he must notice the faintly purple tinge of the Dreamless Sleep. He nods curtly at Harry and downs the whole cup.</p><hr/><p>Things between them shift ever so slightly after that day. They learn each other as if they never met before and at times, it feels like sailing in the night with no lighthouses on the horizon, just following one will-o'-the-wisp after another in circles, impatient and hesitant about what they’ll find when they inevitably clash.</p><p>Harry starts to better understand Malfoy’s moods and motivations, knows when to keep pushing and when to back down. He knows to keep asking to check his injuries and witness them fade over the next few days. He knows to press the issue of clothes until Malfoy finally caves, agreeing to borrow some of the spares Harry has brought, even if he asks Harry to shrink and Transfigure them black beforehand.</p><p>Draco Malfoy carries a chip on his shoulder that should render him breathless, has an ego the size of Britain, and the emotional compass of a Mountain Troll. Most of the time, he’s predictable as the tides—brash, entitled, and self-serving, but sometimes, he makes two cups of tea instead of just one, or nicks some money and brings them food before Harry wakes up, smashing the puzzle Harry’s been carefully assembling, leaving him with scattered pieces and a different image to begin with. Half of the things he says suggest that if presented the opportunity he would fuck Harry until they couldn’t breathe, the other half suggests it’s his way of deflecting any ounce of seriousness that shines through the cracks he pretends he doesn’t have. He polishes his gun when Harry’s watching and opens shop doors for old Muggle ladies when Harry’s out of earshot. He’s rude and inconsiderate, he hogs the shower and uses up all the hot water, the same way he steals the hours of Harry’s sleep and drains his patience to the last drop.</p><p>He doesn’t care what Harry thinks but still checks if he’s looking when he cuts his breakfast pastry in half.</p><p>Their predator-prey relationship in which both thought they were the former, has turned into a mutual ceasefire; with time, it has started to resemble a slow, coiled prowl on the edge of each other’s understanding. Harry’s not sure if he wants to be understood if it would mean exposure, just like he’s not sure he wants to understand Malfoy if it would mean being wrong.</p><p>The calm before the, quite literal, storm lasts for a whole three weeks, full of watchful curiosity and small kindnesses stuffed between heaps of mockery and exasperation. They’re at their third hotel, somewhere further in the North; the air is imbued with salt and stone as a storm brews over the inky expanse of the sea. Sharp, cold rain still lashes their faces and shoulders with every gust of wind, even with the <i>Impervius</i> Harry cast as they walk back to the hotel after a supply run. Lightning cuts through the sky in a bright flash, and shortly after the low rumble of thunder follows in its wake.</p><p>Malfoy’s been miffed all day for no discernible reason, barking and huffing at Harry who, frankly, didn’t bother to bite his tongue either. It’s getting to them—the constant proximity, the stolen glances and old grudges, their constant rivalry and the inexplicably slow passage of time, dragging them against the grain. The place they’re staying at isn’t an especially cheerful one, either; with its damp drapes and murky walls it feels like a floral-patterned dungeon.</p><p>It could have been the weather—the non-stop feeling of a light, freezing drizzle, turning the insides of their collars cold and wet, making their hair curl and stick to their foreheads, or those three weeks of wandering with the knowledge that there are still five left and someone could come after them any given day. It could have been any number of the little things that come with living in close quarters, but suddenly they were screaming at each other with thunder rolling in the background as if Odin himself was sick of the sour tension lingering in the air.</p><p>It all happens too fast and none of it feels real—the screaming match stops them on their way to the hotel and Malfoy’s shouting about being sick of Harry and everything in general, and tries to storm off, stomping through the mud on the side of the road. Harry follows and shouts back, and the oncoming heart of the storm seems to concentrate at his very fingertips as he grabs Malfoy by the collar and hisses at him through clenched teeth. The rain around them rumbles so loud they can barely hear each other’s shouts, and Harry squints at the blinding flashes of lightning that keep blinking in white-yellow pulses.</p><p>The roar gets louder and louder, and the light is now a concentrated beam that’s getting closer and when it finally splits into two yellow headlights, Harry realises it’s not lightning.</p><p>He doesn’t have time to think when the horn of an oncoming truck blares at them and the last thing he registers is how bright Malfoy’s hair shines, illuminated by the deadly glow.</p><p>Harry wraps his other hand around Malfoy’s waist and Disapparates them on the spot.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What did you do?”</p><p>“Malfoy—”</p><p>“<i>What did you just do</i>?!”</p><p>They’re standing on a desolate beach in darkness; tall, spiking cliffs loom over them like hellish gargoyles and the only source of scant light is the waxing moon, fully visible in the cloudless velvet of the sky. The torrential roars of the storm are gone leaving Harry’s ears ringing with just the waves rhythmically clashing with the shore—he must have taken them several miles along the coast, away from all the tempest. He combs his wet curls out of his eyes, casting a small cleaning charm on his glasses. The little beach must be inaccessible to the public—there’s no rubbish lying around, no sign that any Muggles ever wander here, only flotsam littering the shore and filling the air with the smell of seaweed and dead fish.</p><p>Malfoy is looking at him with wild eyes, his whole body shaking with rage, his wet fringe obscuring half of his face. He makes a move as if to run, and then retreats, flouncing about in growing horror, and Harry desperately tries to calm his nerves and come up with a plan in the small time frame they have. He pulls out his wand, holding it tightly, and Malfoy pauses.</p><p>“Potter,” he holds out his hand, pale fingers glistening with rain in the pearlescent light.</p><p>Harry freezes, his heart battering against his ribs, the weight of the decision he has to make dawning on him like an anvil to the face. “What—”</p><p>“Potter, my wand,” he says, his voice laced with steel.</p><p>Harry scoffs. “You must be crazy—”</p><p>“Potter, give me my wand!” Malfoy shouts, and Harry notices his hand is trembling, the slightest twitch of his fingers, something that could easily be blamed on the cold. The truth, however, is lurking in his eyes—wide and shining with barely restrained panic as if they didn’t leave that thunderstorm behind at all.</p><p>He hesitates, every second he wastes not planning ticking above his head like an ominous clock counting down to zero. “Malfoy,” Harry bites his lip, indecision tethering at the edges of his judgement. “I can’t—”</p><p>“Potter, don’t you think I would have already strangled you in your sleep if I wanted to betray you?” Malfoy hisses through clenched teeth. “How would that serve <i>me</i>?”</p><p>Harry can already feel static concentrating in the air around Malfoy, the binding spell working just as expected, and the ozone-like smell of magical discharge pushes him a little further over the edge. They don’t have much time left.</p><p>“Potter,” Malfoy croaks, “do you want to live or <i>die</i>, give me <i>my wand</i>! We have less than ten seconds!” he says urgently and doesn’t even bother to hide his fear anymore.</p><p>Harry makes the decision in the next blink of an eye. He Summons Malfoy’s wand from the pouch secured around his neck and helplessly goes along for the ride as his body throws it to Malfoy of its own volition. Malfoy looks as surprised as Harry feels but, inexplicably, there’s no bile rising in Harry’s throat at the thought of what he’s just done. A part of him should be horrified that he's giving Malfoy a weapon just as they’re about to be found by the Family, that part of him should be screaming at that display of recklessness. But all Harry can see is Malfoy’s gaze hardening with resolve, his shoulders squaring for a fight, and his fingers expertly rolling the familiar, sleek wood, greeting its power like an old friend.</p><p>Malfoy takes a look around, probably feeling they’re close. He raises a cheeky brow at Harry. “Any orders?”</p><p>“Don’t die.”</p><p>Seconds later, they’re there. Harry’s whole world narrows down to the four loud cracks he counts, to the long, pointy shadows moving quickly across the dunes. They’re about fifty feet away and the quaggy, wet sand slows them down, enough for Harry to gather his wits. The mobsters slowly emerge from the darkness and he knows they’ll see them as soon as Harry gets a clear shot. As if on cue, the goons emerge into the moonlit clearing and both Harry and Malfoy cast in tandem, a jet of red light shooting from Harry’s wand, and a sheaf of angry, purple sparks firing from Malfoy’s. Harry doesn’t know the spell but one of the mobsters gets hit square in the chest and immediately collapses onto the ground.</p><p>There’s a heartbeat of silence, like a slow-motion action film unfolding, and then both sides start bombarding their opponents with a hail of curses. Harry instinctively casts a powerful <i>Protego</i>, trying not to get distracted by Malfoy’s graceful, catlike movements as he fires off spells with a sure hand and a murderous glare. They move around each other with surprising coordination, never even brushing shoulders despite being just inches away from each other. Malfoy takes a light step forward and casts a roaring Stunner, while Harry dashes around him and deflects a Disemboweling Curse charging their way. One of the Family’s men is still down and the remaining three try to flank them, shooting off curses Harry has never even heard of, though the incantations give him an idea what they do. He notices there’s barely any green lights coming out of their wands—there must be some orders to keep them alive and Harry wonders about the reason for that.</p><p>They’re fighting back to back now and Harry can feel the scorching heat radiating off Malfoy as his spells take a darker turn and, while not strictly illegal, they’re ones that require strong intent, to maim, to injure, to <i>hurt</i>. He takes down a bulky man with sandy hair with a viciously snarled <i>Mutilo Corpus</i>—his left thigh swells and bleeds as the spell slashes and grinds his flesh deep enough to send him stumbling to the ground with a hoarse scream. With two opponents left, they divide and conquer—Harry tries to disarm a muscular man with an impressive moustache who’s sending enchanted scimitars his way, slashing the air with a metallic whirl. Malfoy takes on the last one—and it’s a woman, with cropped, ginger hair and tattoos on her neck—who fires nasty Dismembering Curses one after another.</p><p>A stray <i>Incendio</i> grazes Harry’s arm and scorching pain explodes over his skin as he responds with a <i>Bombarda</i> sent straight into the ground at his opponent’s feet, sending the man flying backwards with white-hot pellets of vitrified sand following in his wake. Harry distractedly thinks he should focus on his opponent but keeps stealing glances at Malfoy, making sure they both have the upper hand. And Draco Malfoy duelling is something to behold. He moves with the speed and agility of a seasoned rogue, barely having to move as he dodges his adversary’s attacks—not only with his wand, but also with his body. Harry wonders where he picked up those techniques, casting like it’s breathing, moving like it’s dancing. The red-haired woman curses as Malfoy dodges her lazy <i>Crucio</i> with a low, menacing laugh, moving quickly around her and responding with a <i>Sanguine Flammare</i>, the incantation falling off his tongue like a vicious hiss. It hits with a burst of blood-red smoke and the skin on her neck breaks out into a scabby, red web all over her skin, sizzling angrily as she falls unconscious. He turns to Harry with a devilish smile, his white teeth glinting in the moonlight and Harry doesn’t have a clue how to deal with the way that makes him feel.</p><p>Malfoy’s hair is in disarray, falling into his eyes in a pale mess, his face gorgeously flushed and <i>alight</i>; somewhere in the fray, the top two buttons of his shirt have come undone and the scars peeking out of his collar only add to the bad boy fantasy on—long, muscular, unacceptable—legs, and his wicked eyes are alive with victory.</p><p>They’re on the run, in the middle of fuck-knows-where, fighting a battle royale with wanted criminals, and Harry’s currently sporting a semi for his charge. Circe and Morgana help him.</p><p>Harry notices Malfoy's face twist into a sneer a second too late to react before his wand flies out of his hand, stolen by magic, only to land several feet away in the sand. There’s another incantation, muttered with a violent hiss, and then, all Harry can feel is blinding pain in his wielding arm, it throws him to the ground and Harry can see the mobster he’s just bested, with half of his face covered in ugly burns, slowly move in on him. Harry wants to counteract but he can’t feel the wand in his hand, not with the pain quickly spreading along his arm, and the man appears to be the gloating kind, regarding him with a loathsome grin as he keeps himself upright on wobbly legs.</p><p>As he watches the goon raise his wand, Harry absently hopes Malfoy will just get to safety and not do anything stupid, but then the man's wand falls to the ground and he lets out out a strangled, gurgling sound, his hands flying to his neck. Malfoy’s porcelain-white face, teeth bared, appears right next to to the stranger’s and he has one hand behind the man’s neck, and the other close by, holding what appears to be a thin silver wire with a small handle at the end.</p><p>“Long time no see, Dmitri,” Malfoy rasps right next to him, as he tightens the garrote around his neck. “I was starting to wonder whether I’d ever see your repulsive face again.”</p><p>The man, Dmitri, jerks violently in Malfoy’s iron grip and Harry watches in horror as his face swells with blood, spit foaming at the corners of his mouth. Malfoy is panting in unrestrained fury, eyes dark like onyxes, as he steadily keeps his hold and watches his former accomplice struggle for breath. “As usual, using tacky, old tricks to get to me,” he <i>tsks</i> in mock-disappointment. “I do love a good, dramatic role reversal, though.”</p><p>“Malfoy,” Harry says, standing up, feeling his muscles pulse furiously around his wound; he’s dizzy with adrenaline and there’s blood in his peripheral vision. “Draco. Don’t kill him.”</p><p>The use of his first name draws Draco’s attention and he turns to look at Harry. “He’s the one who bound me,” he snarls and with one, well-aimed kick sends Dmitri to his knees. “And now, the spell will finally be undone, won’t it, Mityushka? He hates when I call him Mityushka,” he adds with a dark chuckle.</p><p>“He’s— What?” Harry chokes out. “Are you sure?”</p><p>Malfoy scowls at him. He presses his knee between Dmitri’s shoulder blades and adjusts the garrote. “Now—”</p><p>“Wait,” Harry breathes, grabbing his shoulder. “Go get your wand. <i>Go</i>,” he says urgently. They need to be ready to leave as soon as Harry makes that poor excuse of a gangster reverse the curse. Draco pauses, looking Harry in the eyes with an unreadable expression, and eventually releases Dmitri; the man falls to the ground, wheezing and coughing as his lungs finally swallow some much-needed air.</p><p>“And <i>you</i>,” Harry growls, swinging his good hand and lifting the poor sod into the air and slamming him against the nearest cliff face. His left hand isn’t usually as cooperative as his right but it’s more than enough against an unarmed, injured wizard. He twists his wrist, meanly, and Dmitri groans in pain as Harry’s crackling magic presses him against the sharp, cold stone.</p><p>He’s not sure where that protectiveness is coming from but Harry feels his blood <i>boil</i> at the thought of this puny little man holding anyone on a pathetic leash to do his bidding. Malfoy comes back and Harry hears a loud crack as he ‘accidentally’ steps on one of the mobster’s discarded wands and breaks it in half against a rock.</p><p>“How do you reverse that thing?” Harry asks, looking into the man’s black, beady eyes.</p><p>“He has to say the incantation,” Malfoy says darkly, wand ready. “With a little intent, that’s all it takes. It’s an old spell.”</p><p>“Well?” Harry snarls at the man. “We’re waiting.”</p><p>Dmitri mutters something in what Harry assumes is Russian, glaring at him with disdain, and spits on the ground. Clenching his jaw, Harry twists his fingers a little more and the mobster lets out a raspy cry. He can feel his injured hand burn hotter with every second they waste—Dmitri has to undo the spell and Harry will squeeze it out of him if he has to. Dmitri’s face looks even worse from up close when Harry leans in, regarding him calmly. “Do you think that just because I’m with the Aurors, I won’t make you?” he whispers dangerously.</p><p>Malfoy is an intimidating presence beside him, determined and silent apart from the soft gasp he lets out at Harry’s words. “I fought a war, Dmitri,” Harry continues, slowly releasing the valve on his magic, tightening his grip in a careful, excruciating show of power. “They’ll just say I’m crazy if my hand… <i>slips</i>,” he says and the man yelps in pain for a second; he lets go, then—he’s obviously not going to kill him but the bluff seems to be working as Dmitri nods vigorously, trying to wiggle his arm out to stop him.</p><p>“Go on, then.”</p><p>“<i>Ya otpuskayu tebya</i>. I release you,” he rasps in a thick accent and Malfoy moves behind him, letting out a slow exhale.</p><p>“Did it work?” Harry asks, not taking his eyes off the mobster.</p><p>“I— yes,” he says in a strange voice. “I can’t feel it anymore, it’s… done.”</p><p>“Good,” Harry says and sends Dmitri to the ground like a rag doll, rendering him unconscious.</p><p>“Did you—”</p><p>“He’ll be fine when he comes to,” says Harry, feeling his wound scream in pain. The hand he was casting with hurts too, not used to channelling so much magic. He manages to Summon his wand he must have dropped when he was injured and slightly wobbles, losing his balance.</p><p>Draco is beside him in seconds, wrapping a strong arm around his waist, and he’s so warm Harry only then notices how cold he feels. “Shit,” he breathes, checking Harry’s arm. “Potter, are you going to faint?”</p><p>“Mmm, no,” Harry mutters, pretty sure he’s not. Still, he feels exhausted. “We should go before they all—”</p><p>“Right. We should Obliviate them.”</p><p>“We can’t, Draco,” Harry says tiredly, speaking, even though his arm feels like it's about to fall off. “Can you Apparate us? At least a hundred miles, for now,” he asks, letting himself lean on the firm muscle of Draco’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to let him know that his warmth is welcome for some reason, he doesn’t want to huddle closer or face him, but Harry does it anyway and notices there’s a trickle of blood on Draco’s forehead. He fights the urge to wipe it off with his thumb.</p><p>Malfoy is quiet for a while but finally, he says: “You look like shit.” Harry gets the impression he doesn’t really mean it. “Let’s go then,” Draco murmurs and his magic sucks them into the vortex of Apparition.</p>
<hr/><p>The receptionist at the small roadside hotel they Apparate close to looks at them with horror while Harry tries to hide the bloodied gash in his arm as he fumbles in his pouch for a credit card. Draco steps in with all the charm he has in his arsenal, talking about a minor hiking injury and promising they won’t make any mess someone might be squeamish to clean up. It’s infuriating how well it’s working—the girl immediately backs down and asks if they need a first aid kit with a shy smile, just short of offering to tend to their wounds herself. Draco’s raised brow suggests that he considers a Muggle first aid kit to be virtual rubbish in the face of what he can do with a wand but reluctantly accepts it nonetheless, seeing as the hiking trip lie doesn’t go well with their evident lack of any significant luggage.</p><p>They get a room—it’s nothing special but still looks nicer compared to the first hotel. Two beds, a clean ensuite bathroom, and the hotel even offers breakfasts which Draco immediately insists they pay extra for. Harry’s too tired to argue about public money with him right now so he also throws in a ridiculously overpriced bottle of whiskey, reasoning they might both need it. They stumble inside their room and Draco deposits him on the bed that’s furthest from the entrance, despite Harry’s weak protests, barking that it’s closer to the bathroom and adding that he’s not waking up to the sun in his eyes after the night he’s had.</p><p>Harry groans seeing the blood and grime already staining the crisp, white sheets under him, and makes a mental note to thoroughly <i>Scourgify</i> them when he’s all patched up. Draco paces around the room, casting wards on the door and windows, throwing various Privacy and Repelling Charms and Harry’s mildly impressed with his sharp efficiency; Draco is taking all the precautions he would himself. He watches Draco move around the room; he puts the kettle on, pours himself a glass of the whiskey and downs it in one go, then takes off his suit jacket. Draco’s taking off that bloody shoulder holster and checking his gun for any moisture when Harry hears him humming; it’s an unfamiliar melody and the sound is soothing, reverberating in Draco’s chest in a low tone as he opens the first aid kit, examining its contents.</p><p>“Are you… <i>singing</i>?”</p><p>“What? Ah, I suppose,” he says distractedly, a rueful smile creeping up on his face. “Seeing Dmitri again reminded me— It’s an old Russian folk song,” he says sifting through the odds and ends in the kit, discarding a pack of plasters but setting aside a few rolls of bandages.</p><p>“You speak Russian?” Harry asks with a raised brow.</p><p>“Enough to get around,” Draco replies with a smirk. “I spent a year there during my time with… well. They made acquaintance with some powerful people over there but our Russian comrades quickly saw them for what they were,” he sniffs. “Though I did get my… <i>taste</i> of the eastern culture, the long winters, the resplendent ballrooms, the <i>pelmeni</i>… and the men.” He gets up and keeps rambling about the Russian wizarding world, their parties and the interesting characters he’d met there while he rummages around the hotel room, finally coming up with a large bowl and a plain white washcloth.</p><p>Harry listens, imagining Draco mingling with Russian high-society, taking to their exuberant gladhanding like a fish to water, melting their defences with his effortless, lazy elegance and coy charms. His presence must have been quite a treat—a pale, frozen beauty with delicate features, more than willing to warm their beds on those long, freezing nights. Harry remembers their fourth year at school and the way some of the Durmstrang boys looked at Malfoy, their eyes lingering just a second too long, the tight knot of their thick eyebrows loosening up as they regarded him at the Slytherin table. Tall, slim blonds seemed to be their catnip no matter the gender and Harry can’t really blame them, seeing his own strange reactions to Malfoy lately.</p><p>Draco, as if reading Harry’s thoughts, chuckles lightly from the bathroom where he’s filling the bowl with warm water.</p><p>“I do like a strong, silent Slavic man,” he says dreamily and Harry rolls his eyes. “They’re much more straightforward over there, mind you, and <i>very</i> insistent once their eyes are on the prize,” he says. “Most of them looked like Krum, all shoulders and brooding, Dmitri was a poor example, as you can imagine.”</p><p>Harry’s quiet, trying not to think of the prize Draco’s talking about, hoping it doesn’t show on his face.</p><p>“Oh, and their chai? <i>Exceptional</i>. I taught my house-elves how to make tea like they do, even bought an antique samovar, and never went back to the ways of my English forefathers,” he says, his lips curving into a mean smile. “I hope Lucius is having a blast, rolling in his grave.”</p><p>Harry tries to sit more comfortably and hisses at the pressure on his injured arm. He pats around for his wand, thinking it’s time he gets to fixing himself up after the short breather he’s taken.</p><p>“But enough about that,” Draco announces, Summoning his assembled healing station onto the other bed. He turns to look at Harry, slowly shaking his head. “Oh, how the tables have turned, Auror Potter.”</p><p>Harry squints at him. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“Don’t you just love our little dynamic?” he asks, flopping down on the edge of the bed next to Harry, careful not to touch his wounds. “So turbulent and dramatic, you, injured in a fight, protecting little old me, and all for the mythical greater good,” he says, gesturing animatedly, wearing the most infuriating grin. After a pause, he prompts: “Well?”</p><p>“Well, what?” Harry asks defensively, already aware what’s on his mind.</p><p>“Do you really want me to say it? I bet you want to hear it.”</p><p>Harry feels his face getting warm. “What are you <i>on</i> about?”</p><p>Draco chuckles darkly, biting his lower lip; Harry follows the movement, watching it give in to his teeth, soft and pliant, and he needs to look away immediately. It’s the pain, it’s getting to him, and Harry would pay good money for Malfoy to just cut his arm off and leave him there to nap in peace. “Or <i>maybe</i> you would like me to whisper it, something sensual to soothe—”</p><p>“Malfoy,” he says with a warning in his voice.</p><p>Draco laughs, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Fine. Still, <i>this</i>”—he points to Harry’s arm—“needs to be tended to, whether you like it or not, so all I’ll say is—” He leans in a little closer, watching him, stormy grey eyes pausing on Harry’s lips for a split second. “<i>Take off your shirt</i>.”</p><p>His warm breath washing against Harry’s skin makes him suppress a shiver and Harry’s momentarily grateful he’s in too much pain to think about Malfoy’s lips and teeth and all the places where he could put them to use. “I can take care of myself—”</p><p>“Really?” Draco asks wryly. “It’s your wand arm, correct? I imagine it will be quite uncomfortable to cast with it at the moment,” he says airily, rinsing the washcloth in the bowl and wringing out the excess water. “And your left hand isn’t as accurate wandless, I saw it back there.”</p><p>Harry wants to counter that but in all honesty, Malfoy’s right. It would be quite risky to try and heal it in his current state so Harry moves to take off his jacket with a displeased grumble. “Why is everything always so sexual with you?”</p><p>Malfoy lets out a low laugh. “Potter, how on earth you navigated this big bad world until now remains a mystery to me,” he says, drawing his wand. “I’m afraid I’ll need to cut your jacket,” he murmurs and Harry shrugs to let him know it’s fine. He casts a precise, careful <i>Diffindo</i> and helps Harry peel it off without messing up the wound. “You should learn—everything is about either power or—”</p><p>The jacket lands on the floor and Draco repeats the same steps with Harry’s shirt. “Or?” he asks tentatively.</p><p>“Or sex.”</p><p>“Power or sex?”</p><p>“Precisely,” Draco says, like it’s something obvious. “Take those two Auror guard dogs that roughed me up—that was all about power. They called me a <i>pretty boy</i> but didn’t touch me, they just wanted to feel the power every bully feels when they’re humiliating someone,” Malfoy explains. “And believe me, I should know,” he adds with a wink. “Mind if comb through your potion stash?” he asks, pointing a finger at Harry’s pouch.</p><p>Harry unties it and manages to Summon all the little jars and vials as Malfoy examines the labels with surgical scrutiny, opening a few and giving them a tentative sniff. “They craved power and all it took to feel it was to break a few ribs. And sex… well. I told you about my work for the Family, didn’t I?” he says quietly, busying himself with the washcloth, carefully dabbing it around Harry’s wound to remove the worse of the sand and dirt.</p><p>“What about money?”</p><p>“Money?” He laughs softly. “Ah, money. That comes sooner or later. Money is the glue that makes it all come together.” He rinses the cloth again and Harry watches the water in the bowl turn pale pink. “Besides, what’s money without influence? What’s money without the thrill? You’re relatively wealthy, Potter. And yet you have a desk job and live out your wicked fantasies in that genius melon of yours. It’s a driver, a perk, sometimes a side effect.”</p><p>Harry doesn’t say anything save for an occasional hiss when he feels the soft, warm cloth touch a particularly sensitive spot; Draco’s hands work with surprising fluidity, skillfully cleaning everything up as he evidently tries to pay attention to Harry’s reactions. The whole scene feels surreal—Harry’s self-awareness can only stretch so far to accept he’s usually the one to provide, to care for others, and it has become such an integral part of his identity, he feels a tiny grain of panic nudging the back of his conscience. The unsettling feeling has accompanied him since his little outburst back at the beach, and now continues to prod at him as Draco Malfoy, of all people, tends to his wounds like he actually cares. Draco Malfoy, who nurtures his darkness like a new breed of an exotic animal, trying out both their limits, who talks like every day is another chapter of an adventure book, who, at the moment, is washing Harry’s blood off his fingers like it’s something sacred. Draco, who doesn’t notice the rusty stain of his own blood drying off in flakes from his hair, who’s seen the world but smells like home, who mocks kindness but embodies it at the tips of his fingers.</p><p>“Do you recognise the spell you’ve been hit with?” Draco asks quietly, breaking the silence.</p><p>“I— No,” Harry sighs. “I’ve never seen anything like it, but it hurts like a bitch.”</p><p>“It’s similar to a Slashing Curse but it has a… toxicity component, so to speak,” Draco explains. “It’s supposed to keep the wound from healing up naturally, to exhaust your opponent,” he says, picking up one of the bottles. He then mixes in a few drops from an amber bottle Harry can’t recall the label of. “This will be unpleasant,” he warns, corking the vial and giving it a shake.</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“You had some silver solution right there,” he says and opens it back up. “I added a dash of Dittany to speed up the healing, the silver will help with the infection. Ideally, I’d use a specifically brewed antitoxin but seeing we don’t have any potion-making equipment on hand…”</p><p>“You know your stuff,” Harry says, mildly impressed.</p><p>Draco looks away, adjusting Harry’s arm so it’s laid flat on the mattress. “I need to pour it all over the wound.”</p><p>“Be my guest,” Harry says.</p><p>The next thing he knows is scorching pain, almost as bad as when he was hit. Harry arches off the bed, trying his best to keep his arm from moving and there are strong fingers wrapping around his shoulder, lightly pinning him down. He groans and rolls over just a bit, grabbing onto the nearest thing which ends up being Malfoy’s thigh. It doesn’t matter, it’s as good an anchor as any to stop the thrashing, and Harry doesn’t acknowledge the hard, warm muscle underneath the thin fabric of Draco’s trousers, nor should he, because it’s irrelevant, and therefore it’s completely all right to dig his fingers in and squeeze.</p><p>“Just a little more, I’m—” Draco trails off and clears his throat. “I’m almost done.”</p><p>The gash is sizzling as the magic-infused silver does its work, and Harry notices Draco has let go of his shoulder—he’s pointing his wand at the pink foam gathered at the torn edges of the wound and muttering some unintelligible incantations. It’s either because it’s in a different language or because Harry’s exhaustion might have just reached its peak, but the delicate lilt of the words rolling off Draco’s tongue is strangely soothing and Harry lets his head fall back onto the pillow as the pain slowly starts to subside.</p><p>“There,” Draco says hoarsely. “Let me wrap it up for the night, I— You can put more Dittany over it tomorrow.”</p><p>Harry’s coming down, and the fog in the corners of his eyes clears enough for him to notice he still has his hand on Draco’s thigh. It feels almost unbearably good, and embarrassing, too, to crave that scrap of skin contact, to crave the feeling of <i>Draco’s</i> skin, and think about him in that way at all, but Harry’s perfectly content to chalk it up to the painkiller Draco hands him while he slowly wraps the bandages around his arm. He downs the potion without a word.</p><p>“So this,” he says groggily, exhaustion slowly settling into his bones. It’s reckless and scary, and a hundred other things but Harry still brushes a single finger over the soft fabric of Draco’s trousers. Back. Forth. And stop. “What’s this about.”</p><p>Draco’s tense and he doesn’t move an inch, his fingers shaking slightly as he ties the dressing into a knot. “It’s hard to play a game when you don’t know the rules,” he says cryptically. “All done.”</p><p>He admires his handiwork for a while and Harry thinks about how Draco’s right. He doesn’t know what the rules are either—all he knows is that his skin is tingling, his heart is pounding and he’s about to pass out. </p><p>“I need a shower,” he says abruptly, and lifts himself off the bed. Draco bolts away, and busies himself with the kettle even though the water must have gone lukewarm a good fifteen minutes ago. He only turns around when Harry opens the bathroom door, mouth open around a question. “I won’t mess it up,” Harry says, lifting his patched up hand.</p><p>“You better not,” Draco shoots back with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes.</p><p>Harry takes his shower cold but it does very little to wash out the flush suffocating him from the tips of his ears down to his neck and chest. The involuntary reaction to the intimacy of Draco tending to his injury is just proof that this forced proximity is starting to get to him. He might be reasonably attractive, but it’s still Draco Malfoy, who’s somehow become Draco along the way, and now, Harry’s standing under a cold spray of water, trying to will his painkiller-addled erection away. He drops his arms loosely by his sides—the injured one wrapped in a solid <i>Impervius</i>—clenches his fists, and lets the water drip down his face and chest, an ice-cold rain of logic and responsibility. His cock hangs half-hard and heavy between his legs and Harry really wishes he could take himself in his hand, wishes he could get a glimpse of the hardness he felt under his palm when he clutched at Draco just minutes ago. It’s normal—he’s young, and maybe a little bit lonely, and all that pent-up frustration and exhaustion just needs an outlet.</p><p>Besides, there’s no way this ridiculous attraction is mutual—Malfoy is all talk, always eager to mess with him, and some things just never change. The only thing Harry can do is suck it up and maybe get it out of his system as soon as his right hand heals. Setting his priorities in this clusterfuck of a mission is the only way for him to focus on the goal, get it done, and move on with his life. He washes himself, and does his best to forget Draco’s strange behaviour, his voice, and the unbearable tenderness that came out in a moment just as inconvenient as Harry’s own reaction.</p><p>In all the rush of his abrupt retreat, Harry forgot to bring a change of clothes with him—he’s not putting his blood-stained trousers back on and his shirt currently lies cut-up and bloody on the floor. With one last steadying breath, Harry leaves the bathroom in just a pair of black boxer shorts, hoping to Merlin they won’t be too revealing in the dimly lit room. Harry isn’t sure he would know how to handle Malfoy’s reaction, whatever it might be, to yet another unnecessary little distraction.</p><p>Well, not so little, according to his hookups.</p><p>He comes out and mutters weakly that the bathroom is free, rushing to his bed and finding it as good as new. All the potions Draco took out are gone, presumably back in the Mokeskin pouch, save for two—Dittany and a Painkiller Potion. Draco’s leaning against the table, nursing a cup of tea and staring at Harry with wide, shining eyes, stark and bright under his general mask of indifference.</p><p>“I took the liberty of cleaning up the mess,” he says smoothly as if Harry wasn’t standing half-naked before him. He doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t look Harry in the eyes, just regards him in heavy silence, and instead of feeling exposed, Harry suppresses a full-body shiver as if those pale eyelashes were brushing against his very skin.</p><p>He clears his throat. “Thanks. D’you need any spare clothes?”</p><p>Draco chuckles, quickly regaining some of his usual self. “Yes, Auror Potter, I find sleeping in grimy, bloodied clothes highly unsanitary,” he says, “and I’m afraid that sleeping in the nude, while decidedly being my favourite option, might hurt your fragile sensibilities. The usual, please.”</p><p>Harry’s cock gives a weak twitch at the mere thought of Draco parading naked in their shared hotel room and he briefly considers using some of the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder he still might have in his pouch to hide.</p><p>They started doing this a few days into the first week—Harry would take some of his spares, Transfigure them into a plain colour which somehow always ended up being black and, after Malfoy’s stubborn requests, shrink them a bit so they fit him better. And <i>better</i>, in Draco’s case, always meant <i>snug</i>. Harry’s given up on trying to understand why—Draco announced he would not be roaming about looking like a house-elf and that was the end of it.</p><p>“Just the shirt,” Draco says in a bored tone just as Harry digs deeper for some pyjama bottoms. Seeing the question in Harry’s face, he shrugs. “You started it.”</p>
<hr/><p>Later at night, they lie in their respective beds and neither is falling asleep anytime soon. Harry keeps thinking about unprofessional choices, Draco’s hair, and the way his hand slipped while shrinking the shirt which resulted in him having to see every single dip and muscle outlined in the fabric stretched over Malfoy’s chest. He also thinks about whatever the fuck could be keeping Malfoy awake as he tosses and turns two feet away.</p><p>“What a night, huh?” asks Harry.</p><p>“You’re shit at small talk. The timing, the topic, the circumstances, all of it.”</p><p>He huffs out a surprised laugh. “I’ve never liked it.”</p><p>“Of course you haven’t.”</p><p>Harry folds one arm under his head, the injured one hanging piteously from the bed. “We can’t stay here too long.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“But we can Apparate now.”</p><p>A heavy sigh. “Thank fuck for that.”</p><p>“Where did you get that garrote from?”</p><p>Harry just knows Draco’s wearing a smug smile, even in pitch-black darkness. “So eager to know my secrets?”</p><p>“Can you blame me?” Harry asks quietly.</p><p>They’re silent for a long while, and he’s almost asleep when Draco speaks again. “I didn’t recruit them all,” he whispers so quietly Harry almost misses it. He doesn’t answer but Draco continues anyway. “Only those who already had that darkness inside them. I know it sounds barmy, I do.”</p><p>“Not to me,” Harry says.</p><p>“There were ones that didn’t know what they were getting into. Good ones,” he sighs. “I tried to push them away.”</p><p>“Did it work?”</p><p>“Not always,” says Draco and there’s a bitter note lacing his voice. “What is it about people that always makes them want what’s worst for them?” he asks, probably not expecting an answer. “First, my bloody father, then, all those mindless gangster-wannabes…”</p><p><i>And me</i>, Harry thinks. “I don’t know.”</p><p>Draco just sighs. “Make sure the next hotel is in an actual city.”</p><p>Harry rolls his eyes, not entirely annoyed, and lets sleep take him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry’s arm takes two days to heal. Escaping the charged atmosphere of the little roadside hotel should be a relief but feels like going out of the frying pan into the fire. The constant fear of being discovered that sees him to sleep and greets him in the morning doesn’t help either—Harry keeps wondering what happened to the mobsters they left behind, and whether they will be able to track them down, now that Draco’s free of the Binding Curse. He’s still worried about Zabini, too, but does his best to trust Draco on this one, to trust that Zabini will actually contact Ron if he learns anything.</p><p>There’s a number of things that are turning Harry into a nervous mess: the isolation, the outside threat, and all the complicated, unspoken things going on between him and Draco. Harry has a duty to protect his life at all cost, but now there’s a part of him that would do it regardless of his orders, and Harry wishes he could distinguish between the two. When he catches himself daydreaming about him, Harry blames it on the lack of sleep and moving around too much; when he snaps at Draco or doesn’t say more than a few words all day, he surmises it has to do with the daydreams, with how he can’t stop thinking about Draco touching him like he cares, and Harry touching him back.</p><p>It’s a vicious cycle of blaming one thing on the next and in effect, Harry’s strung so tight he jumps at every unusual sound, or spaces out until Draco snaps his fingers in front of his face or, from time to time, wakes up with a start in the middle of the night, sweaty, breathless, and sometimes half-hard.</p><p>Eventually, he has to call Ron and make sure London knows about their little run-in with the Family. It’s only when Harry hears Ron’s voice for the first time in over three weeks that he realises how much he’s missed seeing and talking to his best friend every day. He gives a brief report of the events and mentions the whole Zabini thing, disappointed to find Ron hasn’t heard from him. It was a long shot, but it still stings to know the bastard has either gone under the radar in some lavish villa or, Merlin forbid, went straight to the Family with all the information he had. Nonetheless, Ron’s more than happy to chat a bit more which sets Harry at ease, a sense of peace he hasn’t felt for quite some time washing over him like a calming breeze.</p><p>“So how did you find out about the… ” Ron trails off, letting out a puff of air. “You know. The beating?”</p><p>Harry drags his hand over his face. “It’s a long story,” he mutters. “It came out during the whole Zabini thing.”</p><p>“I knew the prat wouldn’t tell you himself,” Ron says. “Too proud for his own good.”</p><p>“He’s… Yeah,” Harry croaks. “He’s a lot.”</p><p>“I bet,” Ron huffs. “But at least something good came out of it.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Mate, you have no idea,” Ron says excitedly. “When everybody found out, people started coming forward with all kinds of shit they knew about. Kingsley got so angry we almost ran out of Veritaserum.”</p><p>“Shit, really?”</p><p>“Yeah, y’know. More Aurors beating up detainees, using questionable spells, and also— uh.”</p><p>Harry’s heart does a flip. “Ron. What?”</p><p>“D’you know that utility closet on the eighth floor?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Ron clears his throat. “So. Apparently, people use it to shag in. Can you believe it?” he asks incredulously, as if he was more offended at the fact <i>he</i> was not informed about the shag closet than that it exists.</p><p>Harry lets out a nervous laugh. “Are you serious? Did they get fired?”</p><p>“No, just… <i>heavily reprimanded</i>,” Ron says. “Can you imagine though? Shagging someone while on duty? Couldn’t focus, I reckon.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Harry nods vigorously, feeling his face heat up. “Yeah, definitely.”</p><p>“Although I s’pose I can understand why people do it?”</p><p>“Really?” Harry asks weakly.</p><p>“Well, I mean,” Ron hums. “Y’know. Dangerous, and forbidden, and all that, yeah?”</p><p>“Right,” says Harry, wishing he didn’t ask. “And sometimes, there’s just no other way.”</p><p>“Mate, if you like someone so much you’re willing to risk your job for them, find a way,” Ron says sagely. “Shit, Robards wants something, I’m off.”</p><p>“Sure. It was good to talk to you,” Harry says, feeling strangely emotional.</p><p>“You too. We miss you. Oh, and Hermione told me to say love you,” Ron says.</p><p>“I love you too, Ronald,” Harry replies and his smile feels genuine.</p><p>“Piss off,” Ron laughs. “See you soon, and watch out for Malfoy.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “Bye.”</p><p>Harry puts the phone away feeling uneasy, asking himself what the fuck was he thinking?</p>
<hr/><p>He tiptoes around the topic for the next few days but doesn’t get any closer to finding a solution; the thing is, Draco still has his wand which Harry gave to him himself and now doesn’t know how to get back without making it seem like he doesn’t trust him. It’s not that he does, Harry thinks; it would be foolish to put his trust in the criminal-turned-witness he’s supposed to protect, even if Harry—unprofessionally, tragically—finds him really bloody fit. So even if they fought side by side, even if Draco tended to his wounds, and brought him breakfast the next morning, Harry needs to stick to the rules. Like his personal stone tablets, those rules keep him sane, keep his confused desires in check, and even though Harry’s track record of defying authority might speak against him, he desperately craves something stable to hold on to at the moment.</p><p>Draco, in all his messy, complicated glory is the antithesis of stability. He’s still spoiled like a Siamese cat, debauched like a Dionysian procession, and remorseless in his many particularities. He teases Harry mercilessly and rolls in his victory as if it were the finest silk sheets every time he manages to get Harry worked up. He’s honest to a fault, infuriatingly clever, and witty to the point Harry has to stifle his laughs not to encourage him.</p><p>At times, he finds himself adopting Draco’s inner antagonism, torn between what feels right and what <i>is</i> right. Harry’s not sure whether he wants to pull his own hair out, or pull on Draco’s; whether he wants to bang on the bathroom door and tell him to hurry up, or go in there and make him; whether he wants to push him away or pull him closer.</p><p>Just when Harry steers himself back on the path of sanity, convinced he’s immune to the seductive darkness Draco seems to carry at his disposal like a Veela has its allure, he does or says <i>something</i>, and all of Harry’s stone-cold resolve crumbles like a house of cards. It doesn’t help that Draco’s eyes gleam with delight every time he tells a story, but turn dark like basalt when he says something lewd. Or that he has a mole just below his iliac crest that Harry once spotted and hasn’t stopped thinking about ever since. He insists on Transfiguring all Harry’s clothes he’s claimed as his just short of skin-tight but opts for Harry’s too-large jacket every time he steps out to go to the store and never mentions it out loud. It now permanently carries Draco’s sweet almond smell and Harry wants to wrap it around his pillow.</p><p>Draco Malfoy carries a gun under his jacket but the most threatening thing about him is the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He has a garrote hidden in his sleeve but stops Harry’s breath simply by standing close enough to touch.</p><p>Harry broods alone in their hotel room, with an old radio and the sound of the shower running as his only companions, and thinks how, once again, his innate desire to follow his gut rather than any rules of gods or men is awoken from its deep slumber by Draco Malfoy and his uncanny ability to drive Harry insane. He worries that before these eight weeks are out, something big will happen—and this time, it won’t be mobsters or hitmen pushing them together to the same side. This time, they may go willingly, and that scares the shit out of him.</p><p>Draco leaves the bathroom and Harry, probably for the hundredth time, fidgets nervously, mentally preparing himself to ask for the bloody wand. He’s seen Draco use it in almost every possible situation, from making tea, and correcting Harry’s spellwork, to opening the windows, and heating his takeout. And it’s not that Harry <i>likes</i> seeing him cast, or watching his fingers hold it with a delicate, deadly force, like a feather falling onto a landmine, it’s a duty to his job and his own sanity he can’t quite bring himself to carry out.</p><p>Draco pauses in the middle of the room, watching Harry with mild amusement. “Let me guess. Waiting to have this back?” He wiggles his wand in the air and lets out a laugh at Harry’s constipated face. “I was wondering when you would <i>disarm</i> me, Auror Potter.”</p><p>Harry makes a few noises, none of which is an actual word. He tries again. “Well, you know I have to—”</p><p>“I know, I know,” Draco says, walking over and sitting cross-legged on his bed. He’s wearing the usual shirt he sleeps in and a pair of soft, grey joggers he’s taken a particular liking to, to Harry’s utter dismay—his whole adult life, he had no idea that a person could be disturbed by a piece of clothing but has since adjusted his views. Harry tries not to look, knowing full well Draco usually goes commando like it’s a social norm, and even has the cheek to justify it with made-up-sounding pure-blood customs and definitely made-up medical facts. Harry never asked, Draco just says these things.</p><p>He twirls the wand between long fingers, swings it like he doesn’t care and a cascade of ethereal purple hydrangeas spills from the tip, quickly dissipating into the air with another, more deliberate swing. “It’s funny,” he says.</p><p>If Draco’s referring to how touchable Harry thinks his hair looks right now, then yes, it’s as hilarious as genocide. He raises his eyebrows in question.</p><p>“You, Potter. Or, shall I say, the way you… work.”</p><p>“Care to elaborate on that?”</p><p>Draco regards him curiously. “You’re always so... in control. You give orders, you can assess the situation without a hitch and yet…”</p><p>“And yet?”</p><p>“You’re submissive,” he says with a satisfied smirk.</p><p>Harry coughs. “Excuse me?”</p><p>Draco lets out a sultry laugh. “Have you ever fired anyone?” he asks abruptly. “I doubt the Minister or the Head Auror busy themselves with the lives of their little pawns so I’m assuming their right-hand men get to do the fun bits, correct?”</p><p>“How is firing people fun?” Harry asks instead of answering but decides to indulge him anyway. “Also, they don’t think of us like that—”</p><p>“You’re avoiding the question,” says Draco. “Ever sacked anyone?”</p><p>“I— No.”</p><p>Draco turns so he’s facing Harry, propping himself up on his hands behind his back, as if he knows exactly what he is doing in those joggers—knowing Draco, he probably does. “And why is that?”</p><p>“There was just one time,” Harry says. “I was busy, and Ron’s the same rank. He took care of it.”</p><p>“And the cat’s out of the bag,” says Draco. “See this… submission—and I use the term just to avoid the word 'meekness’—manifests in ways not everyone sees, Potter. Regular people perceive it as kindness, politeness,” he chuckles. “What’s more, they admire it.”</p><p>“Let me guess, you’re not <i>regular people</i>,” says Harry.</p><p>“No, Potter,” he says, throwing Harry his wand. He catches it easily, earning himself an impressed glimmer in Draco’s eyes. “What I see is that you have a pathological need to comfort, to avoid stepping on any toes. You want everyone to be happy,” he explains. “I think it’s because you couldn’t stand the guilt. What <i>is</i> your relationship with guilt, Auror Potter?”</p><p>Harry’s stomach flutters with a curious kind of fear, and maybe a little bit of annoyance at how easily Draco deconstructs people into exposed nerves, finding their weaknesses and asking about them like it’s the weather. He can see how some people might be drawn to that. “That’s what you call submission?”</p><p>“You serve. You <i>like</i> being a good soldier, thrown into the fray like some lesser cannon fodder,” he says, his brows knitted into something akin to concern, like he’s trying to understand why, when Harry is anything but lesser. It makes Harry’s palms sweat. “I know you were raised by Muggles. How did that go?” he asks, looking right at Harry. “And then, you were raised by Dumbledore, yes? Or shall I say, <i>bred</i>—”</p><p>Harry’s pulse spikes at that. Coming to terms with the fact that the man he had considered his mentor for half of his life was not as perfect as Harry was comfortable believing was one of the hardest things he ever had to do. Malfoy doesn’t know what Harry knows, Malfoy didn’t find out his clock was up at seventeen, he didn’t have to go out and <i>die</i>—</p><p>“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry snarls, feeling his anger mount.</p><p>Draco’s infuriatingly calm, almost resigned, and Harry wishes he wasn’t. “Don’t I? Here’s a riddle: who believes you’re destined for a greater purpose, treats you like shit, but makes you think it’s part of the grand plan, and, oh, doesn’t lift a bloody finger when you need him the most?” he hisses. “Who is it? Why, it’s my father! Does it ring any bells?” he exclaims, the manic lilt to his voice making Harry back down. “Get off your high horse, you’re not the only one who was chained to an egocentric prick.”</p><p>“You want to know how it went? Living with Muggles?” Harry growls, unwilling to discuss Lucius Malfoy of all people. “I didn’t eat, not proper meals. I didn’t sleep in a bed, I had a cupboard. I didn’t get clothes, only hand-me-downs. I only got glasses because a teacher at the Muggle school I went to noticed I needed them, I—” He exhales. “I’m not saying growing up with Lucius must have been a picnic—”</p><p>He trails off, noticing Draco has gone strangely quiet. He’s looking at Harry with an expression that suggests he might have overshared, and Harry immediately feels bad and annoyed at feeling bad because that means Draco’s right, and he really doesn’t like being a burden. While Harry can admit there’s a grain of truth to what Draco’s saying, he can’t help but think that being seen is as dangerous as it is intoxicating.</p><p>“I guess we’re both fucked up in our own special ways,” Draco says quietly, and lets out a huff.</p><p>“I suppose we are,” Harry says, smiling weakly. “Can you just— Stop?”</p><p>“I can,” he says with a smirk.</p><p>Harry rolls his eyes. “<i>Will</i> you stop?”</p><p>Draco looks him up and down. “Tell you what,” he says, tapping a finger against his lower lip. “You want something from me, but I want something in return.”</p><p>“Draco, I can’t give you your wand— It’s not personal—”</p><p>He waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, material possessions are so last century—what <i>I</i> want is information.”</p><p>Harry pauses and shakes his head in confusion. “I can’t—”</p><p>“Not <i>that</i> kind, do keep up, Auror Potter!” Draco says with a laugh. “Let’s say that every time you want something from me, I get to ask you a question.”</p><p>Harry stares.</p><p>Draco raises a dramatic finger. “<i>And</i>—you have to answer honestly. On my part, I can assure you I’m not interested in your secret Auror base where you breed new generation soldiers, or anything like that—”</p><p>“Are you insane?”</p><p>“—it’ll be a small, harmless question, just to kill the time,” says Draco. “So? What do you say?”</p><p>Harry sighs, his mind racing, thinking what Draco could possibly want to ask him. It’s not really unexpected if Harry thinks about it, turning whatever’s between them into a <i>quid pro quo</i>, making it a game as if it would feel any less real that way. “Draco—”</p><p>“Oh, you’re no fun,” he says teasingly, with a barely-there twitch to his fingers.</p><p>“Do I get to ask questions, too?” Harry asks without thinking, his heart hammering in his chest.</p><p>A soft <i>oh</i> escapes Draco. “That’s intriguing,” he hums. “Let me think—given that you already know all my sins, big <i>and</i> small… I wonder— If there’s not at least a little Slytherin in you after all,” he says.</p><p>“You’d be surprised,” Harry says with a smirk, forever unable to forget his first meeting with the Sorting Hat.</p><p>“Well, now you have my curiosity, good job! You’ve got yourself a deal, Auror Potter!” Draco says, looking at him in a way that makes Harry sweat.</p><p>“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”</p><p>Draco shrugs. “The same way I’ll know you are—you won’t. I’m not so keen on taking a shot of Veritaserum every time I ask you to open a bloody window— By the way, I’m the only person I know that can brew it without that god-awful aftertaste, honestly, can you taste it too? It’s what I imagine a dragon pox-ridden cock would taste like—”</p><p>Harry chuckles; Draco talks so much he usually jumps between topics like a sports anchor commenting on seven different disciplines. “I’ve told you several times, a window can be opened without a wand, too,” he says.</p><p>“But that’s so pedestrian—”</p><p>“Back to the point,” Harry cuts him off.</p><p>“Ah, yes! Well,” he says and pauses, regarding Harry with unrestrained fascination. “Trust is a peculiar thing, isn’t it? I trust you’ll tell the truth, however uncomfortable it may be, yet…”</p><p>“Yeah?” Harry watches with hitched breath as Draco bites his lip.</p><p>He finally grins. “Yet I still don’t believe you don’t tune in to our little wireless to listen to me wank when the night falls upon us.”</p><p>“Maybe I’m too busy wanking myself,” Harry lies, and his cock twitches just like it does every time at the thought of listening in during one of Draco’s outrageously long showers. It’s either all teasing, or Draco has actually been touching himself a few feet away every other night, and Harry isn’t sure which his body is reacting to so viscerally.</p><p>“I’m sure you are,” says Draco, with an expression that clearly says otherwise. “But back to our conversation—how is this mindless servitude going for you?”</p><p>“I asked you to stop.”</p><p>“Are you willing to take a question?”</p><p>Harry bites the insides of his cheeks, treating Draco with a deadpan glare.</p><p>“Answer me this and I’ll stop,” Draco says. “Is one of the reasons you don’t want to talk about this the fact that am I at least a little bit right?”</p><p>“Draco—”</p><p>“Please note I said <i>one</i> of the reasons,” he points out.</p><p>“<i>Yes</i>, all right?” Harry grits out. “You can pat yourself on the back now.”</p><p>“I will pat myself all over,” he purrs. “I like this game already.”</p><p>"God, you're such an arsehole sometimes,” Harry says, while both of them know that means <i>most of the time</i>.</p><p>"I know, that's how men usually perceive me,” Draco shrugs, splaying himself on his bed and grabbing the latest book he’s been devouring.</p><p>Harry stands up and Summons a change of clothes, looking for his toothbrush. “And you never wanted to do anything about it?” he asks, rummaging in his pouch.</p><p>"I did. I started topping."</p><p>Harry closes his eyes for a second, taking a steadying breath. He’s partly to blame for the utter recklessness of Draco throwing around retorts like that—he never tells him to stop, he’s not even sure he <i>wants</i> him to stop, and that fact is terrifying enough on its own. And, perhaps, the whole question game, Draco reading him like an open book, Daco knowing exactly where to push to get a reaction, lies deeper than either of them is willing to admit. It should stop, and neither is willing to make a move to do so, and it never fails to send a shiver down Harry’s spine.</p><p>Without really thinking about it, Harry shucks off his t-shirt and goes to the bathroom, nearly suffocating under Draco’s gaze escorting him to the door.</p>
<hr/><p>The rush of scalding-hot water lashing at his back drowns out all sound as Harry stands in the shower with one hand on the tile wall. Head bowed down, he tries to gather his thoughts so he doesn’t jump out of his skin with how fast his mind is rushing. The steam condenses on the glass stall door, turning it milky-white, so thick he can hardly breathe. The whole experience feels more like a sensory deprivation trip than a shower. Harry’s skin is flushed a deep pink and it almost stings from the pressure, his whole body string-taut and restless.</p><p>It becomes very apparent, very fast, that no amount of soap will wash out the image of Draco tonight that lingers at the back of his mind, the way he looked at him and talked about all the things Harry thinks about when he’s alone. And he thinks about it now, the insistent tug of the spell dancing along his core, and Harry digs his fingernails into his palm just thinking about it—how easy would it be to just let that tug guide him over the edge.</p><p>He doesn’t dare look down, feeling the thick, hot weight plumping between his thighs.</p><p>Just one peek into the spell. Just to check.</p><p>As soon he tunes into the spell, his knees buckle under him and Harry’s assaulted with a ragged, breathy sound. He stands there, paralysed, with his forehead against the cool wall, feeling his arousal mount as he listens to Draco, just a few feet away, letting out a low moan. And then, Harry is ruined.</p><p>His hand moves down and he hisses, dragging his palm down his shaft and cupping his balls, massaging them lightly until his cock bobs fully hard and flushed red. It’s been a while since he’s done this, and since Harry’s already crossed the ethical Rubicon of wanking over his charge, he intends to savour it. Just as he slowly, deliberately wraps his fingers around his cock, his thumb and index finger barely meeting, he hears a gasp. And then, another one, and another one, and more that follow, turning into a cascade of soft, rhythmic exhales that catch on Draco’s vocal cords like a false note on the finest violin.</p><p>With hot, sticky lungs and his lower lip bruised under his teeth, Harry starts to move his hand in time with those delicious huffs—full, excruciating strokes, head to hilt, twisting his wrist and thumbing the slit. It’s perhaps the most erotic thing he’s ever done, listening while Draco touches himself and doing the same, thinking about him. He wonders if Draco’s cheeks get flushed when he’s close, if that flush reaches his chest, mingling with the thin sheen of sweat beading at his skin. If he bites his lip, or maybe lets his mouth fall open, pink, soft, and gasping, and perfect to lick into, and Harry’s hand speeds up as he imagines Draco’s filthy mouth stretched around him, imagines thrusting into that perfect heat. Draco would look into his eyes, definitely, just like he always does when he teases and flirts, just like he did when the stormy silver darkened with an invitation that Harry accepted as if the devil himself coaxed him to.</p><p>He’s going faster and faster as Draco’s breathing speeds up and his delightful, keening mewls ring in Harry’s ears like the filthiest litany. The hot water dribbles down Harry’s back and the sides of his neck, every scorching lash making him gasp and drive his hips forward to meet the steady pump of his fist. Draco must be getting closer, and so is Harry, and he immediately knows they will come at the same time, and squeezes his cock harder, all slippery with precome and the remnants of water. He wishes he could lay down comfortably, maybe add a slickened finger to the mix to feel his orgasm build hot and low, twist his insides and curl his toes in complete bliss, but this will have to do, and with Draco’s incoherent groans it’s still everything he could wish for. Harry hisses as the head of his cock catches on the calluses on his fingers on every downstroke; his vision blurs and it’s either the water or the sloppy, wet sounds he can hear as if Draco were right next to him, and then he hears something else. A broken whisper, dripping with urgent pleasure: <i>Potter</i>.</p><p>Harry slaps his free hand over his mouth and moans; his legs turn numb as he comes and comes all over his fist and the shower wall.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harry knows that Draco knows. It’s clear as day. It was clear the second he left the bathroom that night, feeling the room fill with electric, guilty, silence as Draco pretended to be asleep, buried under his duvet. Harry could hear the slow, too-natural breaths coming from the bed, and his bones felt liquid when he lay down and wondered if Draco’s muscles still quivered in the aftershocks of his orgasm, just like his.</p><p>The fact that they don’t talk about that night doesn’t mean either of them forgot about what happened.</p><p>Or that they stopped, for that matter.</p><p>It’s an unspoken rule. They don’t disturb the tension-ridden bubble they have both inadvertently stuck themselves in, walking in circles along its delicate walls, careful not to break that imperceptible balance. It didn’t become a habit as much as an unspoken prompt; evident in a single glance, an off-hand joke, or a momentary pause between one of them putting their hand on the bathroom door handle and actually pressing it. It could have been Harry’s imagination but he is almost certain Draco has picked up on every single one of those signals, as there is something daring in his nightly activities when the temptation becomes too much for Harry not to indulge. Just like with most things that Draco does, he puts on <i>a show</i>, making unholy sounds and whispering hot, forbidden things that make Harry blush even though Draco isn’t the only one with his cock in his hand and sin written all over his face afterwards.</p><p>Everything about Draco is contrary to what Harry has always believed to be true. The things he learns vary from mildly disturbing to view-changing in their crushing simplicity and cutting bluntness. That darkness Draco carries inside him with all the self-inflicted discipline of a twisted monk has seeped into Harry’s alleged purity, twisting into the thin spaces in between, teaching him about a whole spectrum of grey between the black and white lenses he’s always used separately to look at the world. There’s a thing about diffusion he remembers from one of his Potions classes—even two hard, smooth metal plates, when pressed close enough, will pass their atoms into the other, exchange their particles back and forth, slowly blurring the seam that once separated them. And just like with diffusion, Harry can see his own light shine through the cracks and reveal the Draco underneath.</p><p>It all feels slightly criminal and maybe that’s why they keep doing this dance, where instead of opening doors, they pick locks; instead of admitting what they need, they allow the other to steal it and keep it close to their chests. That’s why they keep touching themselves but never each other, and talk about philosophy but not what they truly want.</p><p>They’re halfway through week five when Harry’s shoulder-deep in the Mokeskin pouch’s Extendable Charm, looking for a particular book he’s sure is there, and his hand bumps against something smooth and hard. He grips the narrow part of the object and fishes out the bottle of whiskey he bought at Draco’s insistence all those weeks ago, when they just moved around England and healed each other, following weak excuses and their own curiosity.</p><p>He looks at the bottle of liquor and suddenly wants to down it all in one go, duty, consequences, and mobsters be damned. There are over three weeks left and both Harry and Draco are teetering on the brink of sanity, which can only end in them imploding or, more probably, doing something irrevocably, abysmally reckless.</p><p>“Auror Potter, is that what I think it is?” Harry almost drops the bottle at Draco’s voice in his ear, so close he can feel the warmth of his breath tickling the curls behind his ear. Draco laughs as Harry looks at him with annoyance.</p><p>“Keep this up and I’ll Vanish it,” Harry grumbles, still able to smell Draco despite the distance.</p><p>“Oh come on,” Draco scoffs, “We both know we could… loosen up a bit,” he says, looking straight at Harry with a strange expression. Harry swallows.</p><p>“We can’t risk—”</p><p>“Potter,” he sighs. “Look, there’s a bar down the road—I saw it when I was at the store. You will Glamour us nice and tight, I’ll try to behave, and if all else fails, you have that lovely cloak of yours, yes?”</p><p>Harry’s more than a little suspicious about the perfectly smooth plan Draco’s come up within a matter of seconds. “I see you’ve been busy,” he deadpans.</p><p>“I might have thought about, oh, I don’t know, every single thing you will latch yourself onto in order to say no, as you do,” he says, examining his nails for dramatic effect.</p><p>“It’s very risky,” Harry says tiredly, “it’s not just going to the shop, or booking a room, someone could see us, their memories can be extracted. We can’t have a trail of Obliviated Muggles behind us, someone might see a pattern—”</p><p>“I <i>know</i> that,” Draco hisses, “I know, all right? I’m just— I’m losing my bloody mind being locked up all the time.” He flops down onto his bed like a rag doll and brushes his hair off his face. Harry watches, transfixed, and thinks that Draco’s probably right, wonders if they would never have got to the point of such tension it could be cut with a knife if they’d done all of it differently. It’s unsettling, to think that it might have been the isolation all along, and even more unsettling to know it was always going to happen between them, the universe pushing them closer no matter how much they fight it.</p><p>“Potter,” Draco says gravely. “I have a gun—”</p><p>“Do <i>not</i>—”</p><p>“—and I will paint this lovely floral wallpaper with my <i>brain</i> if we don’t do something—” He exhales sharply. “I need a break. <i>We</i> need a break. We will—”</p><p>“Fine!” Harry throws his arms up. “Fine, just— I make the rules. You will stay close, you will—”</p><p>“I would honestly do whatever you told me to, right here, right now, if that meant leaving this <i>penitentiary</i>.”</p><p>Harry isn’t sure whether it’s the ambiguous nature of <i>right here, right now</i>, or just the permanent imprint that Draco’s sharp tongue has left on his psyche, but his mind goes to places it should steer clear of and Harry quickly changes the topic. “Right. Yeah, okay, all right,” he mutters, feeling his face burn. “I supposed there’s no harm in popping this open since we’re already breaking, like, a shit ton of rules.”</p><p>“There’s the Gryffindor we all know and love,” Draco says with a smirk. Harry wants to wipe it off with his mouth.</p><p>The preamble to their carefully planned evening is awfully anticlimactic—Harry opens the whiskey and they casually sip on it from a couple of tea mugs they find in the room, not talking much while they get ready to leave. Harry squints as the first sip of alcohol hits his throat and savours the lingering burn in his stomach that slowly spreads out to his limbs. For the first time in weeks, he can feel most of the tension that’s been holding him by the skin on his neck dissipate into something a little more bearable, something familiar enough to be fine to handle for the rest of the night. Harry’s careful not to go overboard—liquor makes him loose at the seams, and somewhat soft, which can lead to him saying or—Merling forbid—<i>doing</i> something he won’t be able to come back from. All those plans quickly go out the window though, when after such a long time of abstinence, Harry feels a pleasant buzz extending at the edges of his vision in soft bursts after only two shots, and instead of taking it slow, he decides to celebrate the feeling with two more to reach that blissful, longed-for numbness.</p><p>Draco, to Harry’s surprise, is a picture of calm resolve as he downs one drink after another while instructing Harry in adjusting his clothes to a whole new level of tightness. He looks like sex on legs, posh and depraved, in black jeans and a black t-shirt that hugs his biceps so nicely Harry has half a mind to Transfigure it into something less revealing, mildly horrified he’s turning into Molly Weasley. Thankfully, they’re both so heavily warded in high-level concealment spellwork, it will be impossible for any Muggles to even remember them after they leave, and very hard to recognise them if, against all odds, some of Draco’s old friends decide to visit a dingy bar in the middle of the English countryside.</p><p>They take the short walk instead of Apparating and Harry welcomes the crisp November air biting at his face and fingers, watching Draco’s hair gleam in the faint street lights. He uses the time to sober up and regain a little of the vigilance he feels has leaked out between one shot and the next, and discreetly watches Draco walking beside him, unusually quiet and deep in thought.</p><p>When they walk through the door of the bar, he’s immediately hit with a waft of overheated, stuffy air smelling like beer and ginger. The inside is dimly lit, with rows of dull lamps hanging over creaky oak booths with washed-out tables and cracked leather seats. There are some tables scattered in the middle and the bar is at the far end, with a ceiling-high shelf stacked with all kinds of spirits and a grumpy-looking old bartender in front of it. Harry takes a quick look at his surroundings—one entrance, a row of windows on one side, twelve patrons, all minding their business, all—</p><p>“Draco,” Harry says quietly. Draco raises a brow, listening. “Why are there no women here?”</p><p>Draco frowns, looking around as he takes off his jacket and Harry gets momentarily distracted by his arms but quickly goes back to examining the bar. Just as he initially thought, all the people scattered around the bar are men of varying ages. And then Harry’s attention is drawn to a small, narrow rainbow banner hanging off one of the shelves behind the bar.</p><p>“Oh for the— Malfoy,” Harry hisses, making him jump. “Just tell me. Did you <i>know</i> this is a gay bar?”</p><p>Draco’s eyes widen as he looks behind Harry, craning his neck. It doesn’t take him long to add two and two and his face breaks into a shit-eating grin. “I did not,” he says slowly, biting his lip as he surveys the patrons. “But perhaps Lady Fortune has smiled upon us.”</p><p>“Bloody hell,” Harry mutters, already expecting trouble, judging from Draco’s loose, flirtatious stance. “What’s a gay bar doing in the middle of nowhere anyway?”</p><p>“It’s the outskirts.” Draco shrugs. “I’m guessing years ago Muggles prefered to be discreet as well, yes?”</p><p>Harry grimaces. It actually makes sense when he thinks about it like that—an old-looking gay bar and a small hotel nearby. He recalls seeing a price for one night back at the reception and it all comes together—back in the eighties, this area must have been quite popular with men who wanted to meet someone but avoid any prying eyes and big mouths. Harry’s quietly glad it’s never been the case for him and smiles sadly. “I guess. Right— Let’s go,” he says and whips around to face him. There’s a trace of barely visible stubble on Draco’s cheeks and Harry tries to focus on something easier to deal with. He looks him in the eyes. “You will keep close. You will not—”</p><p>“Oh my <i>god</i>, what?”</p><p>Harry pauses. “Be… yourself, I guess?”</p><p>The corner of Draco’s lips goes up in an unamused smile. “I wonder what you mean by that, Auror Potter.”</p><p>“I <i>mean</i>,” Harry growls, “don’t draw unnecessary attention, and don’t call me <i>Auror Potter</i> in front of Muggles!”</p><p>“But it’s so distinguished—”</p><p>“Malfoy!”</p><p>“Fine,” he sighs, rolling his eyes, and gestures to the bar. “Shall we, <i>Harry</i>?”</p><p>The use of his first name for the first time since it all started throws Harry off—it rolls off Draco’s tongue in a manner so unfamiliar and, at the same time, <i>personal</i>, he’s glad they’re at a bar so he can drown the feeling it left under a generous layer of low-quality lager.</p><p>Draco, naturally, turns more than a few heads as they enter but walks straight for the bar, not paying any mind to the curious glances he earns, only smiling with predatory satisfaction. Harry can hear a whistle or two sent after them and he clenches his jaw, walking forward with stiff shoulders and an indifferent expression. While he’s slightly uncomfortable with the staring, Draco seems to revel in it, to come alive under the awestruck scrutiny of some of the younger men and Harry, begrudgingly, can’t really blame them. Draco looks positively <i>edible</i>, and Harry reckons men with his looks are not a common occurrence in these parts. His jeans hug his arse in a way that would make a saint drool, his shirt only accentuates the subtle lines of his muscles, and his hair is something out of a magazine, just begging to be pulled on.</p><p>Or maybe that’s just Harry’s perception of him, and they look like that at every newcomer.</p><p>Harry orders their drinks and pays—a beer for himself, a glass of whiskey for Draco—and they take a seat in one of the booths. Harry chooses it carefully—not too deep inside, well-concealed in the shadows, with a clear view of the entrance and most of the patrons. It’s increasingly surreal with every second they sit there and Harry watches Draco opposite him, sipping his whiskey and regarding him with a soft, curious glance.</p><p>“I should have expected this outing to be rather like one of my late grandmother’s soirées,” he says abruptly, leaning on the backrest with his hands crossed, “but I urge you, do try to unwind, Au- I mean, <i>Harry</i>,” he adds with a sly smile.</p><p>Harry feels a little bad as at that moment, he feels every hard knot in his back and realises how hard he’s gripping his glass. Draco’s sultry voice only adds to his nervousness, so he tries taking a few deep breaths. “You realise having drinks with witnesses hunted by the mob is not exactly in my job description?” he asks tightly, taking a large gulp.</p><p>Draco sighs. “Well then. I suppose if things are to be tense I might as well— Yes.” He nods to himself and looks at Harry. “I’m sorry I asked about the Muggles. I mean, the other day when— Well.”</p><p>“What?” Harry asks, feeling his heart flutter, wondering why Draco would bring it up.</p><p>“I know you don’t think highly of me but—” He licks his lips and lets out a nervous laugh. “It was low, even for me. So, my apologies,” he says almost off-handedly but Harry can see a barely-there twitch in his jaw, a long finger wiping condensation off his glass and, inexplicably, he believes it’s sincere.</p><p>“I— Yeah, it’s fine,” he chokes out. “You didn’t know.”</p><p>“I imagine eleven-year-old me would have had a field day,” Draco mutters, a rueful smile tugging at his lips.</p><p>“I imagine he would,” Harry says, tilting his head.</p><p>Draco takes another sip, studying Harry with a scrutiny that makes his neck burn. His eyes roam, linger in places Harry can’t quite identify, and the feeling of exposure tightens his muscles until Draco speaks again. “It’s just… insane, isn’t it?”</p><p>“You mean my life?” Harry asks. “Yeah, you could say that.”</p><p>“I mean,” Draco huffs. “You are the Saviour of the Wizarding World. The Boy Who Lived Twice and all that, and— To find out about such a thing, and at the hands of some measly Muggles no less, it’s <i>baffling</i>.”</p><p>Harry doesn’t know how to respond, unsure whether Draco is talking about his status or the Dursleys’ questionable upbringing methods. He’s been over it for a while, not really keeping in touch with them, only exchanging a polite Christmas card with Dudley every year—it’s more than enough and Harry supposes he’s allowed to feel resentment about his past, he does. But the only thing he can bring himself to feel, though, is an empty, repressed longing for something he’s never had.</p><p>“Every magical child wanted to meet you as soon as they were old enough to understand who you are,” Draco says coldly and Harry realises that the slight tremble in his voice has nothing to do with any sort of sadness or empathy. It’s fury, ice-cold and cutting, seeping through Draco’s teeth like poison. “Every family would have gone <i>insane</i> with joy at the prospect of fostering you. And he— They gave you to <i>Muggles</i>, those filthy fucking worms, who dared to starve and abuse you—”</p><p>“All right,” Harry raises a hand, wondering if that sudden outburst has anything to do with the whiskey or Draco’s general distaste for anything non-magical. “I’m not going to lie, it wasn’t exactly idyllic but— It’s in the past, it’s done, and—” He sighs. “No use getting yourself into a lather over it.”</p><p>Draco exhales, one, two times. He downs the rest of his drink. “I suppose,” he mutters.</p><p>They move on after that, skillfully steering the conversation to safer topics; they discuss the weather like any proper Englishman ought to, concluding that it’s shite; they talk in hushed voices about Quidditch, and Hogwarts, and a great number of unimportant, safe things. The pleasant buzz of alcohol is back and running along Harry’s veins and he discovers, with no small amount of mild outrage, that Draco Malfoy, once his cagey vigilance is sedated with enough alcohol, and his edges are dulled with a few soft glances, is actually quite decent company. Empty glasses seem to multiply on the table in a timelapse and for the first time this evening, or this month, for that matter, Harry can truthfully say he feels relaxed.</p><p>He’s laughing at some terrible pure-blood joke he only understands half of and lightly taps his glass on the table. “Another round?”</p><p>Draco slowly cards his fingers through his fringe. He looks ridiculous: pink-flushed and ruffled, and his smell mingling with the sharp, woody scent of whiskey reminds Harry of Hogsmeade and fireplaces. He wants to lick it off Draco’s lips. “Why not?” Draco shrugs. “If you’re so adamant on spoiling me with low-grade whiskey, who am I to complain?” He doesn’t slur a single word, enunciating every syllable with an elegant drawl and it’s equal parts absurd and attractive, how well the bastard can hold his liquor.</p><p>“Apparently, pampering you is now my job,” Harry says with a lopsided smile. He’s feeling a little tipsy but still sees Draco’s eyes darken just a fraction, contrasting with the smile still plastered to his face.</p><p>“Ah, yes, all work, no play,” he gestures vaguely. “And yet, you’re not as dull as I thought, Potter.”</p><p>“How flattering.”</p><p>“One of my many talents.”</p><p>“I bet,” Harry says, feeling a little breathless.</p><p>“Don’t let me stop you though,” Draco says, stretching his arms a little. Harry watches his shirt ride up over his belt. “Go, do your <i>job</i>.” There’s something strange about the way he says it but Harry’s too inebriated to care and too distracted with the shirt to give it any serious thought.</p><p>“I’m going to use the loo first. Don’t start a gang war while I’m gone,” Harry says over his shoulder, and starts walking towards a set of doors by the bar where he assumes the toilets are, testing his balance on the way. Once he’s inside, Harry casts a discreet Life Detection Charm and once he’s positive he’s alone, he casts a few more standard spells, just to get used to casting under influence. It’s been a while since he’s had to do that—when he’s out drinking with his friends, they usually take a Muggle cab or walk when the weather’s nice. The re-introduction of one Draco Malfoy to his life has not only resulted in Harry drinking on duty to preserve his sanity, but also to Harry woozily casting a <i>Lumos</i> and having it come out emerald green. He looks at himself in a mirror, surveys his booze-flushed face and props himself up on the sink, feeling his head spin dangerously.</p><p>Everything feels like a fucked-up, surreal dream, so Harry splashes some cold water on his face.</p><p>He takes a few deep breaths to pull himself together but feels like there’s nothing left to pull—all the emotions Harry’s been trying to keep inside are spilling out, thinned with alcohol and skewed judgement. Harry’s feeling braver than he has in months, alight with the kind of resolve that has accompanied him through death itself, and in his momentary beer-addled stupor, he realises he’s going to say or do something incredibly stupid, and maybe just as bold.</p><p>He leaves the loos only to notice Draco’s not alone.</p><p>Quite the contrary, in fact—Draco’s so clearly not alone it stops Harry dead in his tracks. He’s standing by the bar, in the far corner, where the counter curves back to the wall. Carelessly propped up on the bar, Draco’s smiling at a tall man roughly their age, with thick dark curls and dark eyes. He seems so in his element Harry instinctively takes a step back, watching the exchange with a nauseating weight in his stomach. The man is standing so close to Draco that their chests are nearly touching, and so are their hips; Draco says something Harry can’t hear and doesn’t bother to find out as a flash of fire slowly crawls up his spine. The man laughs and leans in, whispers something in Draco’s ear, and Draco laughs and it’s easy, natural, almost unconscious. When the stranger doesn’t move back, smoothly staying in Draco’s space and whispering bullshit into the soft locks just under his temple, Harry realises his fists are clenched so hard his fingers have gone numb.</p><p>Draco throws his head back, letting out a low laugh. He playfully hooks his finger in the man’s belt loop, looking him up and down.</p><p>The man traces the tip of his nose along the tendon under Draco’s ear. And then, he places a soft kiss to the side of Draco’s neck.</p><p>Harry’s blood <i>boils</i>.</p><p>He stomps over to the bar and in the corner of his eye, sees the bartender frown as the empty glasses lined up on a nearby shelf rattle, an ominous foretoken of the extent of his rage. Draco spots him when he’s halfway there and something flashes across his face, something bright and terrified as he places his palm flat against the man’s chest and gently pushes him away, maintaining a smooth, porcelain smile.</p><p>That perfect, tailored expression, and the infuriating gentleness in Draco’s movements, only push Harry further into the wordless mantra going around in his head. The stranger spots him and perhaps sees the seething fury in the knit of his shoulders as he immediately backs off to the side just so Harry can manhandle Draco to the side.</p><p>“Having a blast, are we?” he growls, not caring he’s holding Draco by the front of his shirt, snarling at him like a rabid dog.</p><p>Draco tries to jerk out of his grip, refusing to look him in the eyes. “What is your problem?” he hisses. In the background, the man looks at them curiously.</p><p>“What did I say about drawing attention?” Harry asks. “Might as well stick a neon light saying <i>look at me!</i> to your bloody forehead!”</p><p>Draco sneers at Harry with a disdainful, venomous curve of his lips. “Well, I’m hardly a monk, am I?” He slowly puts his hands over Harry’s and pries his fingers open. Harry’s arms fall numbly to his sides. “A nice-smelling man touched my arse and I gladly indulged. Until you came over to claim your <i>property</i>,” he adds, spitting out the last word like it was something vile sitting in his throat.</p><p>Harry frowns and shakes his head, frustrated. “He could be—”</p><p>“He’s <i>not</i>. And now,” he crosses his arms, “you will excuse me.”</p><p>He promptly walks away from him and Harry follows, absolutely not done talking. His heart is racing and he tries to somehow justify his outburst, to sort out his emotions and his logic because <i>logically</i>, Draco shouldn’t be groping strangers at a bar while having a price on his head. As to Harry’s personal issue with the whole thing, he refuses to say it, or even think about it, alcohol still flowing in his blood, propelling those awfully inconvenient thoughts.</p><p>As soon as Harry comes over, he hears the man’s low voice. “Shame he doesn’t like sharing, I wouldn’t mind watching you two,” he says, smiling impishly as he looks Harry up and down. In different circumstances, Harry might even pause to look back at him—he’s reasonably built, with thick, black eyelashes and stubble that would feel <i>just right</i> against his skin. And while he can see the allure, Draco engaging into situations like that makes his stomach churn.</p><p>“I say, that would be quite a show, wouldn’t it, <i>darling</i>?” Draco smiles at him sweetly, and Harry does his best not to think exactly what kind of show he’s talking about. Images of him and Draco flash through his mind and in those scenes there’s no third person, just him and Draco, and the things they’re doing in those scenarios are nowhere near safe, or professional, or nice.</p><p>“We’re going,” Harry deadpans, careful to keep his voice smooth.</p><p>They finally leave and Harry throws Draco’s jacket at him when they step through the door. “Try not to fuck anyone on the way,” he snarls and starts walking, hoping the cold, night air will sharpen his senses.</p><p>“You’re a fucking idiot,” Draco spits.</p><p>Harry ignores him and keeps up the pace, silently glad the hotel is nearby.</p>
<hr/><p>“How does it feel?” Draco asks as soon as they’re in the room, after a walk that felt like going to the gallows.</p><p>“What,” He says, stopping in the middle, feeling his anger build up again.</p><p>“Paranoia, mistrust, that fucking infuriating <i>conviction</i> you’re always right—”</p><p>“Don’t even start this—”</p><p>“He was suspicious, okay? I was—” Draco huffs, running his hand through his hair. “I saw him watching us, and I just. Well. Old habits die hard, yes?”</p><p>“What the fuck are you talking about?” Harry asks with a tense brow.</p><p>“Oh for the— Didn’t you see him?”</p><p>“He looked stupid,” Harry mumbles, hoping Draco doesn’t catch that.</p><p>Draco does and snorts. “Yes, he also looked rich, and like he was trying to blend in.”</p><p>Harry stares, and his expression must be a textbook example of bewilderment as Draco scoffs impatiently.</p><p>“The small things are what gave him away,” he says darkly. “Manicured fingernails? On a country boy? Also very hard to be low-key when you <i>reek</i> of Valentino, this is expensive stuff. And his clothes? Sure, it was jeans and a t-shirt but slightly more high-end if you took a closer look,” Draco explains, giving off the air of a private investigator. Harry rolls his eyes, remembering exactly how close of a look Draco had the opportunity to get.</p><p>“So what was he doing in a place like this?” he asks gruffly.</p><p>“What all rich people do in places like this—he was looking for drugs,” Draco says, like it’s something obvious. “I knew that look instantly.”</p><p>“You can’t tell me there are no drugs in rich people places or— Wherever your crowd goes.”</p><p>He shakes his head. “I thought we were past the petty insults, honestly. In places my <i>crowd</i> frequents there are… yes. The walls have ears. That one wanted anonymity, for whatever reason.”</p><p>“And what reason might that be?”</p><p>“Well I was trying to find that out,” Draco hisses impatiently. “Or was I supposed to wait until you came back and get murdered in the meantime? What took you so long anyway?”</p><p>Harry quickly decides there’s no good way to tell Draco he was trying to get his fulminant, ridiculous attraction to him under any semblance of control so he ignores the question.</p><p>“Fine,” he sighs. “So was he? You know.” He gestures vaguely.</p><p>Draco smirks. “Attractive? Willing? <i>Delicious</i>?”</p><p>Harry throws him an unamused look.</p><p>“He wasn’t under <i>Imperio</i>, and he wasn’t a <i>mutual friend</i>, if that’s what you’re asking.”</p><p>“And you found that out before or after he was all over you?” He scoffs. “Do you even realise he could have—”</p><p>“<i>What</i>?” Draco snaps. “Hurt me? Please, Potter, I may be wandless but I’m hardly defenceless. Do <i>not</i> forget I know how to look after myself,” he says coldly, with the slightest tremble in his voice that only somehow fuels Harry’s rage. “You said I was a free man. You said—”</p><p>“That doesn’t mean—”</p><p>“Fuck you,” he spits and throws his jacket on the bed, the leather holster following shortly after. “Fuck you, Potter.”</p><p>The bathroom door slams behind him and Harry looks around the eerily quiet room.</p><p>“Sex and power, huh?” he whispers.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To say that the atmosphere is tense for the next few days is like saying Voldemort wasn’t a very nice person. Draco is string-taut and snappy, Harry feels strained and broody, and, apparently, the only thing that keeps them from exploding is wanking themselves raw every night and never talking about it. Harry never would have expected to become a part of a downright ridiculous sexual tension scenario straight out of Molly’s romance novels but here he is, frustrated and bothered, and still unable to banish the image of another man latched onto Draco’s neck from his thoughts.</p><p>All his life, a nagging feeling of <i>want</i> has accompanied Harry wherever Draco Malfoy was concerned, ricocheting between them like a stray bullet that never really lost its momentum. It’s been present at the back of his head, along the tendons in his fingers, simmering at the base of his spine, and buzzing around his very core. When they were eleven, Draco wanted to be his friend, he wanted Harry in his circle, and Harry didn’t share that want; all he wanted was for Draco to stay away. He wanted Draco to do a lot of things: shut up, get lost, don’t say that, <i>leave me alone</i>. At the same time, deep under that layer of animosity and rivalry, Harry also wanted to be noticed, to be seen, and in hindsight, he’s sure Draco felt the same. Later on, Draco wanted to hurt him, to see him fail at all costs, and Harry wanted him to see reason, to change his mind, and in the end, Harry had wanted to <i>punish him</i>. He wanted Draco to stop but also keep going, because if he had ever stopped, Harry’s ice-cold resolve would have shattered on the ground, like the last sword knocked out of his hand. It was all want, want, <i>want</i>. And now, years later, all Harry wants is <i>him</i> and it’s the most consuming, feral want of them all.</p><p>He knew Draco wasn’t evil but it didn’t stop Harry from wanting him to be, if that meant all those complicated feelings would go away.</p><p>A few days after the bar fiasco, they move to a new hotel in a town just a bit larger than the last one. The change of scenery does them both good—the room is bigger, more spacious, and there’s a park across the street they make use of from time to time, and slowly but surely, they slip into their usual back-and-forth as if nothing happened. It’s more charged than it used to be, there’s something orbiting between them like an afterthought, but they both do their best to steer around it, enough for Harry to finally feel like he can breathe.</p><p>One afternoon, Draco enters the room with a sour face, trying to adjust his collar and sleeves, scratching and picking at his shirt.</p><p>“We’re going to need to do laundry,” Harry says, not looking up from the magazine he’s aimlessly leafing through.</p><p>Draco stops what he’s doing and looks at Harry in puzzlement. “What? Why? We’re hardly filthy.” He tilts his head. “Although you <i>could</i> use a haircut, if I’m honest—”</p><p>Harry rolls the magazine and glances at him with a knowing smirk. “You’re scratching. Your clothes are getting uncomfortable.”</p><p>“What’s it to you?” Draco asks haughtily.</p><p>“It’s not my first time on the run,” Harry shrugs. “Too many Cleaning Charms will do that—the fabric can only take so much, it gets stiffer when hit with too many Scourgifies.”</p><p>Draco stares at him like he’s just sprouted a second head.</p><p>“Don’t look at me like that,” Harry says calmly, feeling Draco’s glare linger just a second too long. “There’s a launderette near the town centre,” he offers. The only answer he gets is mortified silence. “You’ve never done laundry in your life, have you?”</p><p>Draco opens and closes his mouth a few times. “I’m a <i>wizard</i>, and one raised with house-elves, for that matter, so you can imagine that particular skill was considered redundant,” he sniffs.</p><p>“Spoiled git,” Harry huffs, and adds before Draco can form a retort: “It’s open twenty-four hours, we can go later tonight.”</p><p>“Salazar, even washing our bloody undergarments must take place under the thick blanket of the night, mustn’t it?”</p><p>Harry bites down a smile.</p><hr/><p>The launderette is an old-fashioned one, with scrubbed tile floors, fluorescent lights and mint-green vintage machines that take up most of the space, lined up along the walls and around an island in the middle, next to two rows of plastic waiting room chairs lined back-to-back. The whole place smells like laundry detergent, squeaky clean in a clinical way, and Harry can hear the faint buzz of the lamps; it feels like he’s at a crime scene.</p><p>Draco observes his surroundings with the suspicious expression of someone completely out of his element—he even seems to forget Harry’s watching and cautiously walks around the space, examining the buttons and dials on the machines, and skimming the instructions hanging on the wall. The launderette is completely empty save for the two of them and Harry’s maybe a little bit glad for it, considering the questions Draco might have, if he chooses to ask them, but he’s also strangely on edge and out of his element outside the relative safety of their hotel room. He feels watched in a way similar to those washing machines, like Draco’s trying to figure how <i>Harry</i> works, to see what makes him click and smash the big red button even though there’s a ‘danger’ sign right above it.</p><p>Harry makes use of the privacy and puts up some wards for good measure—Muggle-Repelling Charms, Glamours on the windows, an overall standard set to make sure no-one will barge in on them using magic if it comes to that, seeing as they might spend a while there. He doesn’t tell Draco he’s not exactly a laundry expert himself, and it’s ridiculous such a mundane thing could become their demise. No matter if it’s laundry or lunch, they’re still on the run, there are still two more weeks until the trial, and the danger of discovery remains unchanged.</p><p>They end up choosing a couple of partly-obscured machines way in the back, so as not to attract any unnecessary attention if anyone manages to get through the wards—it’s not the middle of nowhere anymore, it’s a medium-sized town and Harry can still see people walking around, even at two o’clock in the morning. He fishes out all of their clothes, save for the ones they’re currently wearing, not willing to even hint at washing those as well. He throws a few off-handed instructions Draco’s way, to look like he knows more than he actually does, and once they find an abandoned bottle of detergent, they get down to figuring out the machines.</p><p>“Make—it—happen!” Draco barks after several long minutes pass, banging his fist on the machine and startling Harry out of his own quiet struggle. He finally manages to turn it on, dearly hoping the clothes will come out unscathed, and turns to Draco to see him looking angrily at the uncaring device, silent and ominous in its idleness.</p><p>Harry checks if it’s at least plugged in and turned on, still managing to earn himself a begrudgingly impressed look from Draco. He secures the door and holds out his hand for the change he handed Draco earlier and finally manages to turn the bloody thing on.</p><p>“That what you said to your friend at the bar?” Harry mutters jokingly, not really meaning anything behind it, at least not until it dawns on him what exactly he has just said.</p><p>Draco stiffens. Harry could swear the air around them has just turned a bit more stifling as Draco regards him with barely restrained fury. “You know,” he says, a dangerous note lacing his voice. “At first, it was amusing. It even got interesting with time, I’ll admit, to play this fucking game of cat and mouse.” He takes a step with every word, zoning in on Harry who’s rooted to his spot with a racing heart.</p><p>In a split second, Harry decides to engage him instead of changing the topic. Whatever’s about to happen, the buildup has gone far enough and if facing the music means resolving whatever’s been going on between them, Harry is ready for the grand denouement. He crosses his arms and stares Draco down. “You think this is a game,” he says.</p><p>There’s a challenge in his voice that Draco immediately picks up on, like a cat arching its back in warning, seconds before attacking with a vicious hiss. “I wonder,” he says in a low voice. “What is your goal here? What does the great Harry Potter, protector of the little ones, the saviour of all that is holy, get out of this?” he asks and takes another step so they’re face-to-face, speaking in a soft, breathy voice. “Well, Potter? What is it in the end? Sex or power?”</p><p>Somewhere deep underneath the volatile fog of arousal, confusion, and lurching want, Harry wants to shake Draco into reason. That binary system of seeing the world is so far beneath the whirlwind of gestures and emotions between them, beneath that messy tangle of glances, touches, and sleepless nights, his pragmatism feels like a lie, a smokescreen that has been suffocating them both, perhaps for even longer than these five weeks. It’s so much more complicated and fucked up than ‘sex or power’, it’s like trying to scream with your throat clogged up with dirt, like trying to sop up a river with a sponge.</p><p>Harry’s heart forgets how to follow any rhythm. “Do you always chalk everything up to one of the two?”</p><p>“And people say you’re single-minded,” Draco says with a <i>tsk</i>.</p><p>“Maybe you should stop listening to people,” Harry replies.</p><p>“I just might,” Draco says, so quietly Harry can feel his warm breaths tickle his skin, “but I believe that gets me a question,” Draco croaks.</p><p>“Ask.”</p><p>Draco exhales. Slowly, deliberately. His heady smell permeates the air, stronger than any detergent could ever be. And then he asks: “Did you listen?”</p><p>And just like that, Harry’s walls crumble into dust.</p><p>Draco stands too close and smells too amazing for Harry to muster a single word. He can’t look at Draco, can’t allow himself to follow every curl and wave in his hair, to trace the cupid’s bow of his mouth, or to say yes when all his reason is screaming at him to deny it. But to Harry’s complete horror, Draco can read him like a book.</p><p>“Tell me,” Draco whispers. He comes closer, so close their noses are almost touching and Harry could move just a fraction of an inch and their lips would touch, too. He pushes Harry a little, a weak, shaky nudge to his shoulder and Harry’s completely powerless to resist it.</p><p>He takes a step back, and another one, and Draco follows, until Harry’s legs are flush against the washing machine that’s now running at full speed. “Come on,” Draco murmurs and nudges his nose against Harry’s. He inhales, hard, and places his palm flat in the middle of Harry’s chest, right over his Avada scar. His heart is pounding so fast, Draco must surely feel it through the thin cotton of his top but all Harry can focus on are pale eyelashes, how light they are against Draco’s skin, and how the sight of them slowly disappears under the weight of Harry’s own eyelids. His breath speeds up as Draco rubs his nose, and cheek, and lips against his face, searching, wanting, his exhales hot against Harry’s burning skin.</p><p>Draco digs his fingers into his shirt and twists the fabric, and Harry’s left breathless when their lips catch against one another, not really kissing, just prolonging the moment, and it has no right be so arousing but Harry feels like he might explode if he doesn’t taste Draco, and touch him, and be the only person he looks at, even if it’s just for a while. It’s weeks of pent-up desire compressed into one moment; it’s them, standing in an empty launderette at three in the morning under sharp, fluorescent lights, their electric buzz and the machine’s steady churn the only sounds in the background.</p><p>And it’s Draco. Half-hard against the just of Harry’s hip, breathing harshly into his mouth, pushing him questioningly, urgently, asking permission to cross the last bridge with trembling fingers and wet, soft lips.</p><p>They stand like that for a few long seconds, just breathing the same air, and Harry can feel Draco’s hips move; it’s a fraction of an inch, a small, deliberate shiver of a muscle and then, Harry’s lost.</p><p>Between one breath and another, he coaxes Draco’s mouth open with lips and tongue, pushing forward, attacking, claiming him with a small, broken sound. He grabs Draco with too much force, making him hiss in pleasure; he grinds their cocks together so hard he could come, and there are fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and twisting as Draco pushes back and sucks his lower lip between his teeth.</p><p>Harry drags his hands up that slender waist, already knowing how soft and smooth the skin underneath Draco’s shirt is. Knowing how that taut, lean muscle shivers and contracts under his touch, how the alabaster-white flushes the faintest pink, how easily it bruises, and how dark it bleeds. He counts the ribs he mended with his own fingertips, touches the places he wiped clean of wounds, traces the raised scars he carved into Draco’s flesh himself.</p><p>It’s incredible, and impossible, and ineffable, how everything goes full circle—breaking turns into mending, sneers turn into soft moans and <i>stop touching me</i> turns into—</p><p>“Touch me,” Draco gasps into his neck; he grabs Harry’s wrists and unceremoniously shoves them down to his own belt—always demanding despite being undeserving, always bold despite being a coward.</p><p>And Harry does, devotedly and desperately, he unbuckles Draco’s belt, makes quick work of his trousers and then, his fingers wrap around Draco’s cock. He thumbs at the slit, spreading precome around the head, and swallows the sounds Draco makes as he slowly brings him to full hardness.</p><p>Draco sucks a bruise into the dip of his jaw, sending ripples of sensation down Harry’s neck, pumping his blood lower and lower. It’s hard to focus on touching Draco when the mouth he’s been dreaming about for weeks is finally open and his to take, wet, pliant, and sweet like honey. Delicate fingers toy with Harry’s belt and he briefly remembers them hooked in a stranger’s belt loops, so Harry captures Draco’s mouth once again, assaults him with a hot, possessive stab of his tongue and Draco just takes it, thrusts up into his fist as if he knows exactly what Harry is thinking about.</p><p>With shaking hands, Draco manages to open his flies and Harry groans at the release of pressure on his already filling cock, now tenting his underwear and leaving wet stains on the thin, white cotton. Draco’s fingers ghost over his erection but there’s an unspoken vulnerability, a slight tremble and a barely-there pause before Harry fully gives in—he rocks his hips pointedly, hissing at the slightest friction, trying to catch his breath.</p><p>“Oh my— Fuck, Potter,” Draco gasps into his mouth as he cups him through the fabric. “You can’t be serious—” He actually stops kissing him just to look down, his mouth falling open in a soft <i>oh</i>. “Oh, fuck me. Oh, you are— Huge,” he gasps, brushing his palm up and down Harry’s length.</p><p>“Is this, mmmhm,” Draco grabs him more firmly, and Harry groans, his legs instinctively spreading in invitation. “—going to be a problem?”</p><p>“Quite the contrary,” Draco purrs, squeezing him, and then huffs in amusement. “Handsome, rich, famous <i>and</i> a massive cock? Jesus, Potter,” he chuckles and lightly bites at Harry’s throat. Harry absently thinks about the effect he has on Draco for him to be speaking the names of deities he doesn’t even believe in, but it quickly goes out the window when Draco’s hand dives into his pants and around his shaft, giving his cock a light tug.</p><p>“Ahhhh, <i>fuck</i>,” Harry moans and captures Draco’s mouth, again and again, every hungry, bruising kiss leaving him blind with desire.</p><p>They break off with a wet smack and Draco moves down to his neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin, never pausing the steady rhythm of his hand. “I knew it,” he whispers, licking a stripe from Harry’s collarbone to his earlobe. “It was just a glimpse but— Wanna suck you,” he breathes, biting Harry’s ear, and before Harry can say anything, Draco promptly drops down on his knees so hard it must hurt. There’s no teasing or sensual preambles—Draco immediately takes him into his mouth as deep as possible, and it feels so fucking good Harry cries out, silently grateful for the wards he’s put up.</p><p>Draco Malfoy sucks cock just like he argues—once he manages to surprise Harry, he goes all in, with predator-like efficiency, stripping Harry of all his defences and inhibitions. And just like with arguing, swallowing Harry down isn’t some unconscious, natural thing, it’s an <i>art</i> that Draco allows him to feast his eyes upon, putting on a show with the astounding skill to back it up. He knows how to angle his body just so, and Harry can see the slick, reddened head of his cock as Draco wanks himself in fast strokes, arching his hips in graceful rolls.</p><p>Harry palms at the rounded edges of the washer and his hands slip, unable to find any purchase. Draco notices that and, with a sinful glint in his eye, grabs Harry’s wrists and guides his hands to the back of his head, pushing down on it, beckoning Harry to take hold. Harry grabs him by the hair, pulling it hard, coaxing a delicious shiver out of him. The wet, filthy sound Draco makes when Harry pulls him off his cock could be enough to make him come, especially with how utterly <i>ruined</i> Draco looks. There’s saliva and precome dripping down his chin, glistening all over his kiss-bitten lips, tears drying at the corners of his eyes, and he’s panting, watching Harry with black-blown pupils.</p><p>Keeping Draco’s hair in an iron grip with one hand, Harry grabs the base of his cock with the other and guides it over Draco’s lips, smearing wetness all over them, hissing as his slit lightly catches on Draco’s teeth. As if on cue, Draco sticks his tongue further out and Harry drags the head of his cock against it, back and forth, in slow, shallow thrusts, going a little deeper each time. Draco lets go of his own cock and moves his hands up Harry’s thighs, opening his mouth wider—an invitation Harry’s more than eager to accept.</p><p>Guiding Draco’s head, Harry lifts his cock and lets him lick up the seam of his balls, suck them into his mouth until they’re tight and wet with saliva. Draco moves up and buries his nose in the thick, dark curls nestling around Harry’s cock, moaning, savouring his scent, making Harry shudder with want so much, he immediately tilts Draco’s head back and lines himself up. In one slow stroke, he pushes into Draco’s hot, open mouth and down his throat, feeling him relax around the girth until it’s as deep as it can go. Draco’s breathing harshly through his nose, letting out soft, needy whimpers, making Harry’s eyes roll back at the vibrations. His cock dribbles more precome down the back of Draco’s throat as Harry recalls his fantasy and tries to push a little deeper, revelling in the sight of Draco’s depraved mouth stretched around him like that.</p><p>He rolls his hips back, making sure Draco can breathe, and pushes back in, setting a slow, dragging pace, moaning shamelessly as he starts to fuck Draco’s mouth. By unspoken agreement, he pulls out whenever Draco’s fingers dig into his thigh a little harder and lets him take a pause—he swallows a few laboured breaths, a string of saliva stretching between his lower lip and the tip of Harry’s cock.</p><p>It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen—Draco taking his cock like he’s hungry for it, gagging, and whimpering, and swallowing around it. Harry picks up the pace, his knuckles almost white with how hard he’s gripping the silver locks, and feels his orgasm getting closer, pleasure ripping through him in sizzling waves, mounting higher and faster, as he thrusts, and thrusts, and thrusts into Draco’s mouth.</p><p>Harry’s on the very edge when he pulls out and softly whispers to Draco he’s close, swiping his thumb over that plump lower lip. Draco looks up at him with hooded, fuck-drunk eyes, swirls his tongue around the head of his cock, and takes him in one more time. Harry lets out a low, guttural moan and it only takes two, three more harsh thrusts and he’s coming down Draco’s throat so hard his vision blurs at the edges.</p><p>Draco swallows it all, not missing a drop, and as soon as he’s done coming, Harry’s pulling him up and into his arms, kissing him like a madman. He licks into that sinful mouth and feels the taste of his own come, gets drunk on the smell of their arousal mingling with Draco’s sweet scent. With a sharp tug, he pulls down Draco’s trousers, kneading his arse and pressing him closer, feeling his hardness hot and straining against Harry’s spent cock. There’s that gorgeous little beauty mark over his hip and Harry traces it with a finger, committing it to memory. Harry summons a tiny bit of lube as he wraps his fingers around Draco’s cock, making him bite down on his shoulder with a moan, trembling so hard Harry has to hold him upright. He takes note of that visceral reaction and wanks him slowly, sending another tiny spell down his length—the slightest vibration, just to increase the sensations. Draco howls, dragging his fingernails down Harry’s back and that delicious response to his magic makes Harry’s own cock twitch despite the spectacular orgasm he’s just had.</p><p>Ripples of soft, teasing magic drip from his fingers all over Draco’s cock with every other stroke as Harry sucks bruises into the soft flesh on the side of his neck and drags his teeth all over that sweet, milky skin. It doesn’t take long until Draco’s coming all over his fist with a muffled curse, his whole body sagging against Harry’s, and Harry holds him through it, muttering how amazing he feels.</p><p>They come down, panting heavily, and Harry bumps his nose against Draco’s and kisses him softly. It feels a bit surreal, how the machines are still working, and the lights flicker like they did minutes ago, and the world didn’t end like Harry maybe expected it to.</p><p>Harry casts a Cleaning Charm that elicits a small aftershock out of Draco, and tucks them both back into their underwear. The silence is growing more insistent by the minute as the post-orgasm fog lifts from their minds, and Draco is the first one to clear his throat and take a step back.</p><p>“I’m— Ah, I’m going to let you… freak out in peace. Don’t mind me—” His voice is so hoarse Harry exhales softly, afraid he might have gone overboard, but Draco doesn’t seem to mind. Still, Harry stops him, pulling him back by the wrist.</p><p>“You okay?” he asks quietly, not really sure if he’s asking about the sore throat or something else entirely.</p><p>“Are <i>you</i>?” Draco shoots back, not looking him in the eyes.</p><p>Harry cranes his neck so Draco finally looks at him. “I’m not freaking out.”</p><p>“Really.”</p><p>Harry pulls Draco closer. Kisses the corner of his mouth. That fucking filthy, amazing, gorgeous mouth. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late for that?” he murmurs.</p><p>“We’ve just made a—” Draco mutters as he tries to kiss Harry back. “Grave”—another kiss—“unforgivable”—he breathes, sliding his hands under Harry’s shirt—“mmmhm—mistake,” he finishes, letting Harry claim his mouth in a slow, deep kiss.</p><p>“And it felt good,” Harry murmurs, steering him against the washing machine.</p><p>“And we’ll do it again, I reckon,” Draco says, rocking his hips against Harry’s thigh. “Knowing we’re… <i>us</i>.”</p><p>“I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself, anyway.”</p><p>“Don’t,” Draco says, breathless.</p><p>“I listened,” Harry says abruptly.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Harry’s heart speeds up. “Did you want me to?”</p><p>“I wanted you to come in there and touch me,” Draco whispers, his hands roaming over Harry’s stomach. “I wanted you <i>so bad</i>, it was driving me insane, I—”</p><p>The loud beep of the washing machine starts them both and they jump apart, hot and flustered. Harry steals another kiss and earns himself an annoyed glance when he cups Draco through his trousers and then leaves him there to go get out their laundry. Harry’s clueless as to what has got into him—whether along with an orgasm, Draco’s has sucked his brains out as well. He wonders whether the giddy, relaxed feeling stirring in his gut has anything to do with the endorphin high or rather with the way Draco’s trying to hide a smile. All he knows is that the <i>mistake</i> they’ve made feels like the most real, sincere thing he’s done in months, maybe years, and he greets his old, rule-defying self like a beloved relative that’s been gone just way too long. Draco had questioned the way Harry navigates the world, and Harry hadn't had a good answer. Now, it's not the ‘sex and power’ shite, but Harry finds himself dusting off old memories of himself after the war, and discovering they weren’t worth it in the first place. He had been searching for purpose after the war, but that search had <i>become</i> his purpose, he had become lost in it. Harry had almost missed it, had almost let himself fall into a life of doing what everyone else thought he should, rather than what he believed in. With the sweat of the sex they’ve just had still drying on his temples, Harry realises that Draco was right about more things than he cares to admit. And that realisation is capable of shifting his whole life.</p><p>The slam of the machine door echoes off the walls; Draco’s silent, and Harry’s skin tingles, feeling careful, questioning eyes watch him from a safe distance. He rolls his eyes. Draco’s like a mean, wild cat that will accept being touched and pretend he doesn’t care, that will walk away but will check if Harry sees him go. And the most incredible thing is that Harry can touch him at all, with Draco begging him to do so just minutes ago and Harry can’t bring himself to regret it, not with the sounds Draco makes when he’s coming apart still ringing in his ears, or the full-body shivers that took over when they kissed.</p><p>He casts a Warming Charm to dry the clothes, packs everything up and, without a word, comes up to Draco. A soft laugh escapes him at the face Draco makes when Harry cups his cheek with his palm and Apparates them straight back to the room.</p><p>When they land, Draco tries to get away but Harry doesn’t grant him that distance, not yet.</p><p>“Question.”</p><p>Draco tilts his head.</p><p>“You were angry. About—” He shrugs. “Was it just because they were Muggles?”</p><p>Draco opens his mouth for a second before he speaks. “Not… entirely.”</p><p>Harry sucks his lower lip between his teeth and releases it with a smack. “Tell me.”</p><p>Draco’s stalling; he chases Harry’s mouth and tongues at its seam until Harry lets him in. He tastes like caramel and it’s really hard to let him go, but Harry breaks the kiss and places his thumb between their lips. “Draco.”</p><p>Draco sighs. “No child deserves to be treated that way. None,” he says in a low voice. “Even in the mafia… children are off-limits, do you understand? Some poor sod would deal under the table and they would cut his hand off, but there would be tuition money in their vault <i>every month</i> if he couldn’t do his job anymore. And, Merlin forbid, he used that gold for something else.” He speaks fast, piecemeal, as if hoping Harry won’t notice or remember that Draco Malfoy’s capable of empathy.</p><p>Harry, though, is becoming more and more convinced Draco is capable of much more than just that.</p><p>“Are you done?” Draco asks, a little impatient. When he turns away, Harry runs a single finger down his arm. “What?” asks Draco.</p><p>“I’m not done,” Harry says and kisses him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their fall into each other feels like collapsing a stack of dominoes—one small nudge and the whole carefully-built structure crumbles before either of them can stop and think about the consequences.</p><p>Harry used to think of himself as volatile, prone to unforeseen outbursts, unpredictable, but as it turns out, once in the right conditions, Harry’s like a steady stream of water, gaining momentum to finally breach the dam and become still once again. Whereas Draco is nitroglycerin—dangerously calm and clear until you shake it, until you turn up the heat just a bit, trace a hot rod over its surface and it explodes in a burst of flames. And just like he would with nitroglycerin, Harry treads carefully around Draco, watching his reactions and learning to shake him up just so, to savour the burst of fire it invokes.</p><p>The thing about one-night stands is the one-night part—the excitement of a quick release, the anonymity, the frenzied carelessness with none of the consequences. Harry knows how to handle one-night stands. It all changes drastically, however, when the object of one’s downright uncontrollable desire sleeps in a bed next to his every night, and the initial flame not only doesn’t go out, but roars anew with every glance, gesture, and touch.</p><p>It’s inevitable for everything to shift between them since what happened at the launderette. Since Draco made that step Harry was too scared to make himself, since they stopped pretending that the unbearable tension between them had nothing to do with their mutual attraction. Maybe that’s why Harry’s reluctant to let Draco roam free at first, pulling him back to his lips, into his arms, and under the umbrella of illusion that everything is perfectly fine. The fact that they’re finally touching each other isn’t the scary part, it’s the mythical <i>afterwards</i> when there’s come drying on their skin, their breaths are slowing, and all those adamantly ignored thoughts come to the surface. It’s hard to accuse Harry and Draco of being exactly the same and yet, the nagging feeling of panic seems to haunt them both, like lightning that’s about to strike, crashing down and stripping all the masks and walls they’ve so carefully put up.</p><p>Draco is a never ending source of strange, hidden beauty, with his quirks, and looks, and words. Watching him feels different now, and Harry realises it’s not so much his own perceptiveness but rather the fact Draco <i>allows</i> him to see those parts now. Even though Draco’s the one in his custody, it’s Draco who’s been holding a proverbial gun to Harry’s head until now, lowering it more and more, and the moments he forgets about his walls being down, he’s at his most beautiful.</p><p>It gets easier as days pass by; Harry finally lets go of his small fears and concerns, tenacious as they are, and it’s Draco’s unusual steadiness in dispelling them that makes all the difference. Not only does he allow Harry to be physical, he starts to initiate it as well, even though it always feels like a question. They haven’t gone all the way yet, content with using their hands and mouths to bring each other off, but the feeling of <i>wrong</i> and <i>forbidden</i> flakes off piece by piece leaving Harry like an exposed nerve, naked and pulsing with shivering need. Draco often seems so disarmingly unsure when he stares at Harry’s lips, sometimes a little shaky when he straddles Harry’s lap and his hands move to his belt, but always silent in his visceral hunger. The only thing that’s unfailingly <i>Draco</i> about it all, is his desperate greed once he knows it’s okay, his laser focus that makes something ineffable clench in Harry’s chest.</p><p>Their fall into each other feels almost <i>domestic</i>, if purgatory could be called a home, if Harry could ever be content with a <i>for now</i>, without knowing how it’s going to end.</p><hr/><p>Harry gets a call from Ron at the end of the fifth week.</p><p>As soon as he hears his friend’s voice, Harry knows something bad has happened. The conversation is brief and Ron is in full Auror mode, clearly not in the mood for a chat, but also somewhat apprehensive and Harry has to coax the news out of him.</p><p>When Ron finally tells him that they’ve intercepted the Family’s owl, Harry’s whole body goes stiff.</p><p>Apparently, the letter said something about ‘their female guest’ they’ve located in the south of France, and the DMLE justifiably believes the mysterious lady has to be Narcissa. No demands were made, no warnings, no messages or threats have reached the Aurors, just a piece of clean-cut information, a crisp, chalk line added to the enemy side of the board by sheer coincidence.</p><p>They update each other on everything that’s been going on, with Harry sedulously omitting the part where he’s fucking his charge, and they pause, listening to the faint static on the other side of the call. In lieu of goodbye, Harry asks Ron to find her. Ron says he’ll do what he can. Harry asks him to promise.</p><p>Ron has to go.</p><p>He comes back into the room with dread as his companion, filling the room like a black cloud, and Draco jumps up from his seat, already seeing something’s very wrong.</p><p>“Shit, <i>shit</i>,” Harry mutters, seeing the growing concern on Draco’s face, feeling his own panic rise at the back of his throat.</p><p>“What happened?” Draco asks.</p><p>Harry tells him the truth. He can't bring himself to lie to him, not now, not about this. All he gets in response is silence. Dreadful, ominous silence as Draco walks away from him and circles the room with a rising frenzy, looking around with a deranged expression, as if expecting someone to jump out of the wardrobe and say it was all a bad joke.</p><p>“<i>Fuck</i>!” Draco suddenly shouts and kicks the nearest chair, sending it flying across the room. Harry stops it mid-flight with a wave of his hand before it crashes into the nearest lamp.</p><p>“Draco—”</p><p>“Fuck! <i>Fuck</i>—” He grabs a glass from the table and hurls it at the wall. The rain of glass shards stops under Harry’s magic and disintegrates into dust that falls to the floor in a glittery mist.</p><p>Harry looks around for his wand, realising he must have left it in the bathroom, and keeps his hand up just in case. One more glass meets the same fate, then a vase nearly flies out the window, and Harry can only helplessly watch and mitigate the damage. Finally, Draco deflates, pacing around the room with his face in his hands, letting out long, heaving breaths. He props himself up on the table and only when he grabs the edge to flip it does Harry step in.</p><p>“Whoa, Draco— <i>Stop</i>!” Harry grabs both his wrists and backs him up against the nearest wall.</p><p>“Fuck off!” he snarls, trying to wiggle out of Harry’s grip.</p><p>Harry blocks him from moving completely, pressing him hard against the wall and staring into the glorious thunder raging in his eyes. “What can I do? What do you need?” he asks quietly, pressing his forehead against Draco’s.</p><p>They’re so close their lips are almost touching. When Draco finally speaks, it’s a warm breeze laced with unspoken danger, low and quiet. “I need you to set me on fire.”</p><p>Harry shakes his head. “Draco—”</p><p>Draco interrupts him with a hard kiss. “Make me forget,” he whispers urgently against Harry’s lips. “Fuck me, use me, <i>hurt me</i>.”</p><p>Something ugly wraps its fist around Harry’s stomach and he closes his eyes for a second. “Are you sure— This isn’t what you need right now. I know you’re feeling—”</p><p>“I don’t want to feel <i>anything</i>,” Draco growls, his fury suddenly back. He rips himself out of Harry’s hold, making him stumble a few steps backwards.</p><p>“Draco, you need to calm down—” Harry starts.</p><p>“What I <i>need</i> is to fucking <i>do something,</i>” he says, poison dripping from every word. “They already have my mother, and it’s a matter of time until they get to me! Is that how your department works?” he asks with a vicious sneer. “Is that how you protect people? You can’t save me, Potter. You couldn’t save Dumbledore, or Sirius Black—”</p><p>“Fuck you,” Harry snarls, feeling anger bubble dangerously in his gut. “And you? <i>France</i>? What the fuck were you thinking? What do you think they can do about that, we have no power over there, you bloody—”</p><p>Draco glares at him. “You wouldn’t lift a finger anyway, all you care about it is—”</p><p>Harry grabs the front of his shirt and slams him against the wall. “Listen,” he barks, but Draco cuts him off.</p><p>“Yes, that’s it, Potter,” he pants. “Can you feel it? Are you angry? Surely, I must’ve got under your skin.” He bares his teeth in a vicious smile. “No one will know, Auror Potter. You want this, you <i>want</i> to hurt me. Use that anger, come on,” he growls, and Harry feels his lungs burn, his stomach churning with frustration. The only thing that stops him from punching Draco’s light out is the slightest tremble to his voice, so well-concealed Harry almost misses it, and to even notice it’s there feels like a revelation.</p><p>At that moment, Harry realises he doesn’t want to hurt Draco just as much as Draco doesn’t want to be hurt. And that, in turn, makes Harry want him like never before.</p><p>It’s not just a carnal want, to have Draco naked and sweating under him, it’s more than either of them is prepared to accept—Harry wants to swallow that bitter note in Draco’s mouth and turn it into honey, he wants to dissolve the knots in his muscles and absorb the mordant smoke filling his lungs. He takes a breath and slowly drags his teeth down the column of Draco’s throat.</p><p>“I’m not going to hurt you.”</p><p>And then, he sends Draco flying onto the bed.</p><p>He lands right in the middle with a soft <i>oomph</i>, just where Harry wants him to, mindful not to hurt him. Draco’s eyes are wide, gleaming with surprise, and Harry’s skin crawls with want at the rapid rise and fall of his chest, at his quiet, confused arousal. Harry takes one step, and the next twists into Apparition, landing him right on top of Draco whose surprised gasp is immediately stifled with a bruising kiss.</p><p>“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers against his lips.</p><p>Draco’s trembling under his weight. “You don’t know that.”</p><p>“What I know is that she can take care of herself. I’ve seen it.”</p><p>“I should go and find her,” Draco says weakly.</p><p>“That’s exactly what they want,” Harry says, nosing the soft, silver curls at his temple. “The Aurors will find them. I know you don’t trust them,” he says softly, untucking Draco’s shirt from his trousers and sliding warm hands under the fabric.</p><p>Draco shifts, letting out a slow exhale. “How can I?”</p><p>“I know,” Harry whispers, kissing him again. “I know.”</p><p>“Make me forget,” Draco says moving his hands to press Harry’s hips closer, making them both gasp. “I need—”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Harry asks, ironically, as he’s not sure of anything they’re doing anymore, or whatever they’ll do next. All that drives him is the overwhelming need to make it better, to keep Draco right there under him, around him, safe, and unafraid.</p><p>“Distract me,” he whispers into Harry’s ear, kissing it. “Help me trust you.”</p><p>Harry shifts back and hauls Draco upright to claim his mouth once again. With a racing heart, he slides Draco’s jacket off his shoulders as he sucks a bruise into his neck, laving the spot with hard, hot swipes of his tongue. The leather holster with the gun follows the jacket to the floor, its clatter echoing in the silent room. Draco is holding on to him for dear life, letting out soft, barely audible whimpers as he lets Harry devour his mouth again, and again, and again.</p><p>One by one, Harry unloops the buttons on his shirt, kissing down his chest as Draco pushes back, tangling long fingers in Harry’s hair. Harry’s lips are burning with the need to trace the Sectumsempra scars end to end, one by one, naively hoping he’d kiss away the pain he’d once caused; he knows better than that, though, and carefully kisses around them, too terrified to open that Pandora’s box, feeling tension radiate off Draco in waves as he urges him to stay quiet just with the twist of his fingers at Harry’s scalp. So Harry does; Draco arches like a whip in his arms when Harry sucks a nipple into his mouth, and Draco’s hand guides his head, a silent plea, <i>yes, more, harder</i>.</p><p>There’s a subtle, simmering anger lacing Draco’s every move—it turns his kisses more biting, drives him to desperately rock his hips in harsh, stuttered jerks, goading Harry to be more forceful. And while Harry’s self-control keeps that force at bay, just like it kept him from simply mounting Draco right where he stood so many times, his swelling arousal is making him erratic, rushing to explore Draco’s body while it’s his for the taking.</p><p>Draco’s shirt catches on his elbow as Harry tries to yank it off him—he needs more, more skin, more of that sweet, milky warmth and finally, he waves his hand in frustration and both their clothes Vanish. Draco’s moan rips out of him, a throaty, violent sound that makes Harry’s cock swell between their stomachs, sliding on skin that’s already damp with their mingled sweat.</p><p>“Oh my—fucking god, ohhhh—” Draco gasps, rutting against him. “More, fuck, <i>more</i>—”</p><p>“God, Draco,” Harry breathes and pushes him onto his back. He slides his thigh between Draco’s legs and sets off an agonising rhythm, slowly rubbing his cock against Draco’s hip, up and down, humming at the delicious friction, feeling Draco’s pubic hair get wet with his precome. They’ve never got actually <i>naked</i> in front of one another—all those days, it’s been rushed blowjobs with their trousers down to their thighs, quick handjobs, bruised lips, and bitten necks. Until now, they’ve been too afraid to take their time, to look at each other long enough to admit it’s happening and they both want it just as much. And now, Harry finally has <i>all</i> of him, pale and gorgeous, rocking under him and begging for anything he’s willing to give.</p><p>Harry’s hikes up Draco’s leg over his hip and slots them closer—the change of angle punches the breath out of him and Harry rubs their cocks together in sharp, relentless thrusts and Draco arches up to match the pace, dragging blunt fingernails across his back. Harry’s muscles burn with the force of his thrusts, arse clenching on every plunge as he kisses Draco messily, hands roaming over smooth skin, calves, thighs, and up, finally clutching at his waist, hard enough to bruise.</p><p>Magic keeps spilling out through his fingers and around Draco’s whole body, little sizzling sparks of energy laced with low, vibrating rumbles of visceral, concentrated lust and Harry’s unable to control it, not with the way Draco spasms in pleasure, making downright depraved sounds, his cock wet and angry-red against his abdomen.</p><p>“Look at yourself,” Harry gasps, biting Draco’s nipple and watching it swell a beautiful, deep pink, stark against his chest. “You’re so turned on I can <i>smell it</i>,” he whispers, moving to the other one, feeling it harden under his tongue.</p><p>“Hnnng—fuck,” Draco whimpers, trying to pull him up for a kiss and Harry goes willingly. “Yeah, god, yes, feels so good—” he pants out between kisses, sucking Harry’s tongue into his mouth.</p><p>“Tell me,” says Harry, “Is it the magic?” He sends a gentle Stinger at Draco’s thigh with just one finger, feeling it dash up his body like lightning and elicit a delicious moan.</p><p>“Yes, aaaaah! <i>Yes</i>, more, it feels so—oh-oh-fuck,” he breathes locking his thighs around Harry’s waist. “Fuck me. Make me feel it.”</p><p>Harry kisses him one more time, claiming him with teeth and tongue, and rolls him onto his stomach; his cock slips hot and snug into the dip between Draco’s cheeks and Harry rolls his hips, once, twice, leaving a wet trail marking the flushed skin. His magic feels juvenile and beyond any control as Harry brushes his hands all over Draco’s back and down his flanks, feeling it ripple off his fingers in smooth, delicate waves. Draco’s legs spread on instinct and Harry hisses as his slit drags over Draco’s hole, pink and tight, and his mouth waters at the very sight.</p><p>“You’re—mmmmhm—beautiful,” Harry murmurs, kissing and licking his way down, dipping his tongue into the dimples in Draco’s lower back. The only response he gets is incoherent moans. “Want to taste you,” Harry whispers, giving his arse cheek a playful bite.</p><p>If he’s honest, Harry absolutely loves doing this. He loves everything about it—a pliant body coming apart under his mouth, the heady scent of an eager lover, the feeling of opening someone up with just his tongue. He wants to see Draco wet and loose, wants to get him ready to the point he’s screaming for Harry’s cock; he’s not going to hurt Draco, he <i>can’t</i>—Harry wants to show him that no pain needs to be inflicted in order to distract, that he can make Draco forget his own name using pleasure as his only tool.</p><p>Without any hesitation, Harry spreads Draco’s cheeks and swipes his tongue over his hole again, and again, feeling his thighs shiver so hard, Harry needs to shift a little to keep Draco pinned to the bed. Draco lets out a stream of broken pleas and curses, muffled by the pillow under his face, and Harry goes deeper, slipping the tip of his tongue inside him, twisting it with a hungry growl. He eats him ruthlessly, at a steady, devastating pace, saliva dripping down his chin, and Draco just lies there and takes it, mewling helplessly with his fingers twisted into the sheets.</p><p>Harry hoists Draco up by the hips, onto his knees, and lets himself pause to admire the view. Draco, shamelessly spread out, wet and panting, his hole clenching and unclenching, cock bobbing hard and heavy under his belly. Harry cups it in his palm, bends it backwards, and licks a wide stripe from the very tip, up its underside and his balls, paying extra attention to that lovely plump spot just under his hole, wrapping his lips around it and sucking on the sensitive skin with a satisfied purr.</p><p>“<i>Ohmygod</i>—aaaa-ah-<i>ah</i>-<i>ah</i>,” Draco howls, his muscles convulsing with the effort to stay in place, pushing back into Harry’s mouth. “Right there, don’t stop— Fuck—”</p><p>Summoning a generous amount of lube, Harry circles his index finger around Draco’s hole and casts Cleansing and Protective Charms, feeling the muscle give under the pressure, nearly sucking his finger in. Without warning, he slips it in to the second knuckle, making Draco yelp and buck under the steady grip Harry has on his hip. Slowly, he starts to pump his finger in and out, trying out different angles until Draco clenches around the digit with a low moan.</p><p>“Yes! Oh god— Like this, yes, <i>yes</i>—” Draco rocks his hips in time with the steady rhythm, letting out a harsh exhale when Harry adds another finger.</p><p>Draco’s shivering, his legs barely keeping him in position, and Harry adds his tongue alongside the two fingers, adding to the stretch and laving his abused hole with wet, gentle swipes of tongue.</p><p>“Potter,” Draco grits out, his voice hoarse and strained. “Fuck me. <i>Now</i>.”</p><p>“Not yet,” Harry murmurs, kissing his hip.</p><p>“Make me <i>feel it</i>,” he barks, petulantly pushing back.</p><p>“No,” Harry whispers and pulls him up by the shoulders. Scrambling for purchase, Draco props his hands up on the headboard and throws his head back, giving Harry access to his neck—he hungrily grazes his teeth over the soft skin, inhaling that impossible smell with his eyes closed, holding Draco’s shoulders in one folded arm and now driving three fingers into him with the other. He’s almost satisfied with the prep, mindful of his above-average size, and feels his cock swell at the thought of burying it in that tight heat, of fucking Draco, of being <i>inside him</i>. He gives it a few more thrusts, a few more deliberate prods at Draco’s prostate, grinning against his neck as Draco shakes and curses him to hell and back.</p><p>Finally, Harry pulls his fingers out and lightly smacks Draco’s arse for the impatient groan he lets out. He Summons more lube and spreads it all over his cock, hissing at the lightest touch. Draco’s running hot like a bellowing furnace, drenched in sweat, flushed, and completely stunning as he bites his lip when Harry presses the head of his cock against his entrance.</p><p>Draco’s grip on the headboard is so tight his arms are shaking, and he lets out a guttural moan as Harry slowly enters him, inch by eviscerating inch, his cooling sweat dripping onto Draco’s back. By the time he’s inside him up to the hilt, Draco’s panting so hard, his breaths are coming out as choked gulps and Harry holds him tight in his arms, biting into the meat of his shoulder. Draco is taut like a metal rod, so tight around him Harry’s eyes roll back, and he groans, patiently waiting for him to adjust to the pressure.</p><p>“Fuck,” he whimpers, “fuck you’re—so big—god, Potter—” Draco babbles, leaning his sweaty forehead on the headboard.</p><p>Harry brushes his hand up and down his toned stomach, slightly grazing the tip of his cock on every downstroke. “You feel so good, Draco, oh my god, so—tight—” He kisses all over his shoulders, the knobs of his spine, noses at the wet hairs sticking to his neck, muttering nonsense against flushed skin.</p><p>“Move,” Draco chokes out, pushing back a little and making Harry cry out.</p><p>He pulls out a bit, and slowly slides back into that impossible tightness, throbbing and burning around him, afraid he might split Draco in half if he’s not careful enough. The sounds Draco’s making, though, aren’t ones of pain—he lets out a string of soft, mewling gasps as Harry sets a slow pace, only picking it up the slightest bit when he feels Draco finally adjust to his girth.</p><p>Draco would hate it, Harry thinks, if he told him, really, how careful he’s being. How he can’t help but treat him like the finest china that would shatter with one false move. And it’s not because Draco is a wilting, delicate flower, too fragile to grab, to push, to <i>claim</i>—the reason lies in Harry himself, in every sharp intake of breath that wants to swallow him whole, in the way Draco tries to hide his face so Harry doesn’t see the tears drying at the corners of his eyes. Once again, it’s Draco who lays down the rules, with Harry helplessly obeying, worshipping every moan that rips out of Draco without him calculating whether it’s okay to let it out in the first place.</p><p>The only sounds in the room are their mingled gasps and whimpers, and the filthy slap of flesh against flesh as Harry drives his hips forward in savage, unyielding thrusts. He holds Draco by the shoulders and fucks into him, watching, transfixed, as his cock disappears inside him, watches the lube and precome gathering around Draco’s hole, dripping down his balls and thighs. He’s a fucking force of nature, arching into Harry’s touch with his head thrown back, moaning with every ruthless push, his back damp with sweat, hands still clenched around the polished wood.</p><p>They’re both getting close and Harry’s movements become stuttered as he drapes himself over Draco’s back, breathing harshly into his ear, his hand moving to wrap around his cock. The orgasm Harry feels coming is slowly mounting at a low simmer at the base of his spine, deep in his muscles that keep pumping ahead in time with Draco’s broken cries. Harry wanks him in time with his thrusts and Draco goes wild in the bracket of his shoulders, twisting his neck to catch Harry’s lips.</p><p>They kiss, deep and hot, and Harry knows it won’t be long now. “I’m close—fuck—I’m—”</p><p>“Yes, yes—hnnngh—do it, come in me, do it—”</p><p>It’s all Harry needs to let go completely, to fold Draco into a bone-crushing embrace and thrust his hips once, twice, and then he’s coming, his bollocks tight against Draco’s arse, cock buried deep inside him as Harry pumps Draco full of his come. Draco follows seconds later, shooting white stripes all over the headboard, some of it dripping down Harry’s fingers.</p><p>They come to a slow stop, with Harry’s softening cock still inside Draco as he manoeuvres them onto the bed. Draco tries to slip away, of course he does, but Harry doesn’t let him, he’s done allowing Draco to downplay this thing between them, not anymore—not with his teeth marks blooming all over Draco’s neck, not with Harry’s come still dripping out of his arse. He circles his arms around that slender waist and pulls Draco close, slotting their lips together, his heart leaping when Draco returns the kiss immediately and hooks his leg over Harry’s hip. He takes advantage of the angle, moving his hand lower, and swallows Draco’s soft mewl as he fingers him gently, in soft, languid strokes, sneaking a small Healing Spell neither of them acknowledges.</p><p>Somewhere between kissing Draco’s brow and mouthing at his neck, Harry slowly drifts off to sleep.</p><hr/><p>Harry dreams about dragons and the sounds of gunshots, feeling strange, cold knots curl around his stomach, but all of that dissolves into an afterthought when he wakes up to a warm, soft body wrapped tightly around him. It’s not that he expected Draco to bolt, or to move to his own bed somewhere during the night, but Harry’s foolish heart still flutters helplessly as he cracks one eye open and sees silvery-white tufts of hair spilling onto the pillow.</p><p>Asleep next to him, Draco is a pale wonder, tucked between the sheets like liquid moonlight. Usually, there’s a little crease between his eyebrows, tense and vigilant, granting him a cool air of indifference, but it’s gone now; he breathes softly, and every fall of his chest seems to tug at Harry’s heart that beats inside his ribcage like a bird seeking escape. Unable to stop himself, Harry buries his nose in the platinum locks, inhaling the scent he didn’t understand before, baffled at how someone so sharp can smell like the softest whisper of home. It’s easy to brush it all off, to mindlessly bury himself in Draco’s smell and body, but there’s a part of Harry that’s terrified of the slowly advancing realisation that this milky-almond sweetness makes more and more sense as they let each other closer and closer.</p><p>Draco stirs awake and for three short seconds, Harry gets a glimpse of a creaseless, dreamy version of him before he schools his features into the usual guarded look. Slowly, like a trapped animal, he tries to slip out of bed without seeming like he finds it hard, and Harry pulls him in with a gentle tug.</p><p>“I—” Draco starts and pauses.</p><p>Harry shakes his head, looking for the right words. He traces his finger over that beauty mark he’s obsessed with, wondering when he’ll get to kiss it.</p><p>“Stay,” he says quietly.</p><p>Draco’s still unsure, still torn between running for the hills and allowing himself something he’s probably never considered an option—he searches Harry’s face, almost shyly, and traces a long finger over the freckles dappled across Harry’s cheekbone.</p><p>“Come here,” Harry murmurs, pressing their chests together, allowing himself a single shiver at the feel of Draco’s scars against his skin. He kisses him, taking his time, waiting for Draco to open up willingly, to accept what’s being offered and when he does, Harry smiles into the kiss, and folds him into his arms.</p><p>“You said it’s a job,” Draco whispers when they part, his eyes shut tight.</p><p>Harry tucks a blond lock behind his ear. “You were never going to be just a job.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next few days all pass in a soft, distorted blur, like a video recording of a beloved memory playing on repeat. Time seems to flow in circles, looping into moments where Harry and Draco go about their day, pensive and quiet, and inevitably fall into each other’s arms by the time the sun is down. It’s so vastly different from what they started with, Harry feels like he’s been thrown into an alternate reality where they’re not running away from anything, where death isn’t breathing down their necks, and where Draco sometimes smiles and it’s always genuine.</p><p>The fights they used to have, the ones about mundane, everyday things such as who gets to shower first, or what they’re having for breakfast, with both of them saying things they haven’t meant for longer than Harry suspects, now seem like a relic of the past. Now, they take their showers together, and most quarrels somehow evolve into slow, sensual fucks on top of the bedsheets, with Draco riding him in all his flushed glory, drenched in a thin film of sweat.</p><p>Harry doesn’t even notice they’ve approached their last week on the run, partially thanks to Draco’s unparallelled skill in distracting him—not only with the way he looks, or the things he can do with his mouth, but also with the way he <i>sees</i> the world, with his terrifying logic, and fresh takes on everything he deems worthy to have a conversation over. It became evident even before they started sleeping with each other, on long, grey afternoons when they talked their days away for lack of anything better to do, forced to lay low for long periods of time only to emerge every once in a while, vigilant and adorned with heavy Glamours.</p><p>All the things Harry’s been learning about Draco are now blurry at best, all the times Harry had thought he was right about something became a moot point in the argument embodied in Draco’s person. Getting him to drop his guard is a non-stop game of chess Harry has to pretend he’s not really playing while letting Draco win all at the same time. It should be exhausting, to analyse his every move without looking, to keep peeling off the layers of his meanings, but the closer Harry gets to Draco’s core, the sweeter the gratification.</p><p>The next hotel on the road should be their last if everything goes according to plan; it’s situated in a reasonably-sized town in the south, suspiciously crowded for this time of year. They manage to book the last room and Draco’s brows ride up in amusement as they hear the young man behind the front desk shyly utter the words ‘honeymoon suite’.</p><p>“We’ll take it,” Draco butts in, his voice smooth like the finest silk, and, judging by the receptionist’s discreet smile, Harry’s face must be as red as the jacket he’s wearing. He absently hopes the name of the room won’t be visible on the receipt, lest Kingsley or Robards decide to go through the case expenses.</p><p>The room most definitely lives up to its boastful name and, after a short inspection, to its price as well. Hardwood floors, burgundy wallpaper, and modern furniture make up a pleasant, even if extremely romantic, composition. There’s a huge, king-sized bed against the wall, covered with sheets that are crisp-soft to the touch, with an addition of a thick, emerald blanket, which makes the whole colour scheme of the interior seem like a cosmic jab in their direction. There are small, built-in lights at the top of the headboard, sleek, dark night tables on each side of the bed, and a large, minimalist bathroom with a shower designed to accommodate two people.</p><p>There’s one more thing in the room that Harry notices, and quickly looks away, feeling his face burn. A large mirror on the ceiling, directly over the bed; he’s not sure if it’s a standard in honeymoon suites in general, or if just this one was designed specifically to give him a half-hard-on just thinking about what they could do with that. To the side, Draco quietly looks around and doesn’t say a word about it, which only further flusters Harry, who’s now wondering if he noticed, what he’s thinking, and why he’s not saying anything.</p><p>Eventually, not much is said at all, not after Draco invites himself into Harry’s shower and then proceeds to take him apart piece by piece, moving them onto the bed afterwards. They end up thoroughly christening the room, with Draco in his lap, chest-to-chest, his long legs wrapped around Harry’s waist, as they slowly rock back and forth with Harry’s cock buried deep inside Draco. They collapse to sleep hours later, sweaty and worn out, with angry red scratch marks still hot across their backs. The bloody ceiling mirror remains unmentioned.</p>
<hr/><p>The next day, Harry wanders the hotel, and after asking around at the reception he learns why so many people from neighbouring towns can be seen on every corner and all around the small lobby. He can’t wipe the stupid smile off his face as he takes the stairs back to their room, an idea already forming in his head.</p><p>Later that day, after breakfast and a very intense makeout session-turned-mutual blowjobs, Harry gets up as Draco returns from the bathroom. “Come here,” Harry says with a lopsided smile.</p><p>Draco raises an eyebrow. “Again?” He takes slow, measured steps towards Harry, like a predator already salivating at the prey before him.</p><p>He comes close enough to touch and Harry’s stomach leaps when Draco goes easily, slipping into his arms and kissing up his jaw. “Don’t tempt me,” Harry murmurs, letting his eyes fall closed for a second. “I’ve made plans but we have to be Glamoured for them.”</p><p>Draco stops and leans back to look at him. “Oh. Growing bored with <i>this</i>?” He gestures around his face with a flourish.</p><p>“Don’t be daft,” Harry laughs nervously, brushing a thumb over Draco’s lower lip. “And don’t move.”</p><p>He cups Draco’s face in his hand and the Glamour spell radiates off his palm like a breath, following Harry’s intent to hide, to protect—he watches, a little hypnotised, as Draco’s face morphs ever so subtly. His hair turns a darker, warmer blond, his features soften and his eyes turn a pale blue. His skin has lost its moonlight paleness in favour of a light tan and Harry already misses Draco’s usual, pointy self.</p><p>His phone chimes just when they’re leaving the room, after Harry’s Glamoured himself, too, and he finds a text from Ron: <i>where are you anyway</i>? Harry brushes it off—it must have been meant for Hermione, who was actually the one who made him and Ron use mobile phones for emergencies in the first place.</p><p>Draco treats him with a deadpan look as they arrive at their destination. Harry smiles, looking up at the large banner hanging above them: <i>Autumn Fair</i>.</p><p>“Tell me,” Draco says, crossing his arms. “Have I missed the moment when we’ve turned fifty?” he asks haughtily, shaking his head in disbelief. “Shall I whip out my knitting equipment as we mindlessly chew on candy floss with our withered mouths—”</p><p>Harry barks out a laugh. “Don’t be a bitch,” he says, lightly elbowing him in the side. “We get to be outside. It’s crowded, easy to blend in, and chaotic enough that we’ll go unnoticed.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t spare myself a second glance anyway, looking like the caveman you’ve turned me into,” Draco sniffs, without any real malice in his voice.</p><p>Harry smirks. “Good, wouldn’t want anyone ogling you,” Harry jokes, feeling Draco’s hot gaze at his back as they walk through the gate.</p><p>The fair is filled to the brim with Muggles, walking around having fun with their friends and families. Rows of stands are lined up next to every curved path, selling food and snacks and handcrafted trinkets, and offering an array of games and attractions with the prizes displayed at the front. Harry snorts, imagining the horror on Draco’s face if he entered a contest just to win him a huge teddy bear as a tribute to one of the most clichée things one can do for their date at a fair.</p><p><i>Not that this is a date</i>, Harry quickly berates himself.</p><p>They walk around for a bit and Harry can see Draco slowly relax, the tension in his shoulders and the mistrustful expression he only wears in the presence of Muggles in large numbers, slowly dissipating to be replaced with a child-like curiosity that he immediately masks when he notices Harry is looking. Still, Draco eyes the mouthwatering foods the sellers are offering, traces the rows of colourful bunting hanging off poles decorated with fairy lights, and scrunches his nose at the mingled smell of popcorn, mulled wine, and candy floss permeating the air. Harry feels his own stomach grumble so he nudges Draco and jerks his head in the direction of the food stands.</p><p>“Hot dog?” Harry asks.</p><p>Draco snorts and spreads his arms. “How could I refuse?”</p><p>“Git,” Harry chuckles. “I’ll be back in a minute.”</p><p>He walks to the nearest vendor and stops at the end of the queue while Draco retreats to one of the benches surrounding the small makeshift central square, obviously content to sit back and watch. With nothing better to do, Harry resumes his Draco Watch that’s, incidentally, also his job, just for a different reason, and sees a small child approach him and sit down on the other side of the bench.</p><p>Draco looks alarmed at best; he casts a quick, nervous look at the little girl and pretends he didn’t see her join him. He adjusts his collar, slides his hand under his jacket where Harry knows his gun is, and carefully folds his hands in his lap. When the kid opens her mouth, Draco nearly jumps.</p><p>Harry stifles a laugh and quickly tunes into the Surveillance Spell.</p><p>“Are you sad?” the girl asks, looking up at Draco, her legs dangling from the bench. She must be seven at most, with pudgy, red cheeks and a tiny ponytail bouncing happily at the top of her head.</p><p>Draco frowns, casting a quick look at the kid. He’s looking straight ahead with a confused expression when he finally speaks. “Are you talking to me, child?”</p><p>The girl tilts her head. “There’s no-one else here.”</p><p>Draco opens his mouth and quickly closes it and clears his throat. “Point taken,” he says. “And no, I do not get <i>sad</i>.”</p><p>“Everyone does sometimes,” the girl shrugs, playing with the strings on her jacket.</p><p>Draco looks at her, a mix of polite surprise and amusement evident in his face, even with the Glamour on. “Do you always approach strangers like this?” he asks with a raised brow. “Shouldn’t you be supervised?” As if to support his point, he looks around, probably scanning the crowd for a parent or some sort of guardian.</p><p>“My mum is looking for my little brother, he got lost again,” the girl sighs, leaning on the backrest. “I’m supposed to ‘wait here, not go anywhere, and stay out of trouble,’” she recites in a tiny, bored voice that makes Harry chuckle. He has heard that one too many times in his life.</p><p>Draco’s brows rise up. “And you’re here alone? You could get kidnapped, little girl,” he says conversationally, leaning forward and propping up his elbows on his knees.</p><p>“No way!”</p><p>Draco shrugs, watching a small crowd of older kids strut by, carrying snacks and cups of cocoa. “You’re small and defenceless, you would be very easy to kidnap,” he says sagely. “And it’s no fun,” he adds.</p><p>“How do you know?” she asks, craning her tiny body forward to look him in the eyes. Harry briefly thinks the kid is adorable, squirming in her seat, and so clearly fascinated with the tall, broody man who’s indulging her in a serious, adult conversation.</p><p>“I was kidnapped once,” Draco says seriously, like it’s a secret of the utmost importance, and the little girl’s eyes widen with wonder.</p><p>“Really? What was it like?” she asks, now positively vibrating in her seat, but trying so hard to remain nonchalant. Harry’s so preoccupied with listening in on their conversation that an older man nudges him lightly so he doesn’t block the line. He nods in apology, still listening.</p><p>“Awful,” he looks at her dramatically, and Harry nearly snorts. “My kidnapper had no manners and a dreadful haircut.”</p><p>“Why did he kidnap you?”</p><p>Harry’s heart stutters a little when in the corner of his eye he sees Draco’s face soften. “To… save my life, actually. And he did. More than once,” he says quietly, a soft smile tugging at his lips.</p><p>The girl grimaces. “He doesn’t sound evil.” This time, Harry actually snorts, earning himself a puzzled look from a middle-aged woman standing next to him.</p><p>“He’s… not,” Draco says. “He’s quite amazing, actually,” he adds and Harry’s smile disappears, his mouth opening just a bit around a surprised exhale.</p><p>“Do you like him?”</p><p>A laugh escapes Draco before he can stifle it, a delighted sound that shakes his arms a bit as he looks at the grinning child. “You’re too curious for your own good, has anyone ever told you that?”</p><p>“All the time,” she says, shaking her head theatrically. “Sometimes, I make strange things happen, too!”</p><p>Draco pauses, his pale eyebrow arching in question. “Really.”</p><p>The girl nods vigorously. “I turned our cat purple! My dad doesn’t believe I didn’t do it on purpose,” she says like it’s a burden she’s been carrying for far too long, and Harry bites the insides of his cheeks not to grin as a memory of a huge boa constrictor escaping the Little Whinging Zoo appears before his eyes. He absently thinks how much she’s going to love Hogwarts.</p><p>“For what it’s worth, I believe you,” Draco inclines his head and there’s a big chance he’s thinking the same thing Harry is.</p><p>“I think it was magic,” the kid says in a small voice, as if she’s been told it’s impossible far too many times, taking the leap and telling one more person about it, hoping they’ll hear her out.</p><p>Draco smiles cryptically. “Perhaps it was.”</p><p>The little girl smiles for real this time, a huge, bright grin with a few baby teeth missing here and there, and she looks down at her boots. “You’re cool,” she says quietly.</p><p>“I… Well,” Draco stutters, clearly caught off guard, and it is indeed a glorious sight—a mobster turned traitor, with a gun under his jacket and a Dark Mark burned into his skin, rendered speechless by a seven-year-old. “Thank you, I suppose. You’re not entirely awful yourself, child,” he says haughtily, his Glamoured face taking on the faintest pink tinge.</p><p>At that moment, the girl waves to a woman at the opposite side of the little square and jumps off the bench, but not before waving a quick goodbye to Draco who seems completely baffled by the entire exchange. Harry knows better than to ever admit he’s heard the whole conversation, but the exhilarated, fluttery feeling in his stomach doesn’t go away as he pays for their food and walks over to the bench, taking the little girl’s seat. They eat in companionable silence, watching swarms of Muggles walk around the fair; whole families with children, groups of teenagers laughing with their friends, taking photos with their phones, and couples walking with their hands clasped together. Harry’s heart has been behaving oddly for most of the day, ever since they got to the fair, or maybe earlier, when they were still at the hotel, slowly fucking on the king-sized bed—he feels a sudden urge to kiss Draco, right then and there, just to see if his lips are as cold as Harry’s, and if his Glamoured hair is as soft as the real thing.</p><p>“You’re staring,” Draco murmurs with a small smile, crumpling up his napkin and flicking it into the nearest litter bin.</p><p>Harry looks down at his hands, carefully folded in his lap. “Let’s go,” he says. “We need to try something.”</p><p>“I don’t like the sound of that,” Draco says amusedly and smirks. “Except for when we’re in bed, apparently.”</p><p>Harry’s face must be the colour of a ripe tomato if the intense heat contrasting with the crisp air is anything to go by. He beckons Draco to follow him and they both disappear into the narrow path between two rows of merchant stands.</p><p>Draco’s eerily quiet as they arrive at the end of the short queue. He takes a tentative step back and looks all the way up, craning his neck. His Adam’s apple bobs at the column of his throat as he swallows thickly, and Harry follows the movement, missing the privacy of their hotel room.</p><p>When Draco finally speaks, his voice is measured, although there’s a cautious note lacing his voice as he regards the main attraction of the fair: the Ferris wheel.</p><p>“What on earth is this ghastly Muggle contraption?” he asks slowly.</p><p>Harry follows Draco’s line of sight, admiring the attraction. It’s a vintage one—not like the London Eye, with its modern, alien-looking capsules, shiny glass and chrome steel. The Ferris wheel at this small town fair must have been assembled overnight; the seats have red leather upholstery encased in ornate wooden frames that remind Harry of an old circus from black and white movies he'd watched since he got a TV at Grimmauld. There are buzzing yellow and red lights lined around the base and cheery, old-timey music is playing somewhere in the background. He’s secretly glad Draco’s knowledge of Muggle engineering is scarce enough that he doesn’t question the technical condition of the wheel that has most definitely seen better days.</p><p>Harry bites back on the excited smile threatening to break his face in half. “You’re about to find out,” he says cryptically. “See those seats? There, people are getting in,” he points in the direction of a young couple taking their seats while an old gentleman lowers the railing in front of them.</p><p>Draco’s face goes a little ashen, even with the slightly darker complexion of his Glamour. “Oh that’s sweet,” he says, his voice a little high. “You’re under the impression that I'll go willingly.”</p><p>Harry tries not to think about the fact Draco has just called him sweet. Instead, he bumps their shoulders together. “You’ll like it, I promise.”</p><p>“I <i>highly</i> doubt that.”</p><p>“Trust me?” Harry asks quietly.</p><p>“Putting me on the spot like that?” Draco asks, but there’s no malice in his voice. “All right,” he says softly, not looking at Harry.</p><p>Harry’s stomach clenches at those two words; it’s significant to hear Draco confirm it out loud, and it’s more than enough to make Harry’s breath catch in his throat. Draco <i>trusts</i> him; maybe he’s trusted Harry every single day, bit by bit, with his life, his safety, his body. He trusts Harry to take care of him even though Draco himself has always been the only person to do that until now. He trusts Harry to see the side of him he’s sworn to bury and keep hidden for as long as he’s able.</p><p>They reach the front of the queue and Draco’s every move is cautious and calculated—another glimpse to their very beginning, when Draco expected death and destruction to greet him behind every corner, leering at him with yellow eyes and bared teeth. It makes something protective lurch in Harry’s chest, makes him want to do something insane, like take Draco’s hand or tell him everything’s okay. He doesn’t, though, only smiles slightly as they’re the last ones secured in their seats and the Ferris wheel takes off.</p><p>“This is… slower than I imagined,” Draco says after a minute, leaning forward. He watches the ground recede under their feet and Harry watches Draco’s profile, transfixed, trying to record how his cupid bow curves at his upper lip.</p><p>“Did you expect us to be— I don’t know, propelled into the air or something?” Harry asks with a sly smile, sitting back and enjoying the cool autumn breeze. The view in front of them changes as they are lifted higher; the whole town stretches out over the horizon beneath them, with its flickering lights, inky-dark fields and lit-up roads cutting across the landscape in luminous ribbons. Above them, the night sky glimmers with an array of stars dappled all over its black canvas. It’s not a view one can witness in London, and Harry thinks that all those lights reflecting in Draco’s pensive eyes, as he silently regards their surroundings, isn’t a common one either.</p><p>“Do I get a question for agreeing to board the death machine?” Draco asks casually, with a soft note lacing his voice.</p><p>“Ask.”</p><p>“Why are we here?” He turns his head to look at Harry, and Harry’s heart does that annoying, stuttery thing again. He stifles it, though, clearing his throat.</p><p>“Remember that first night?” he asks quietly, and Draco’s face changes—there have been a lot of <i>firsts</i> during all those weeks. The first time they really talked, the first time Harry realised Draco was beautiful, their first kiss and— “The— When we left the Ministry. On that hotel roof.”</p><p>Draco nods, examining the metal railing.</p><p>Harry’s idiotic heart is hammering so hard it aches. “You said you haven’t flown in, what? Ten years?” He huffs. “It’s silly— We can’t really go flying but—” He gestures around them and shrugs. “At least the view is—”</p><p>He doesn’t finish his sentence as there’s a hand gently cupping his cheek, and then Draco kisses him. He kisses him in a way Harry doesn’t know how to handle, not with Draco, not in the clusterfuck of complicated emotions they’ve been circling ever since it all started. The usual hunger dripping off Draco’s lips is gone, replaced by an unbearable sweetness, like sun-warmed honey, soft like magnolia petals after a drizzle. Without thinking about it, Harry’s body leans into Draco’s and he kisses back, all of the air punched out of his lungs, he brushes his lips against that impossible light and Draco makes a small, needy sound at the back of his throat, and Harry feels he might die.</p><p>They jump as the Ferris wheel stops with an ominous creak, their seat nearly at its very top, with November wind lashing at their flushed faces. Draco takes in the view, not letting go of Harry’s face. Draco’s hair is tousled and his lips are swollen and Harry pulls him closer, dragging his legs into his lap, and, thankfully, has the mind to cast a Notice-Me-Not and a few handy charms for safety’s sake. They make out like teenage movie stars in the culminating moment of their story, and perhaps the setting adds to that sensation, but in movies, people don’t smell like almonds with a hint of bonfire smoke, they don’t make every kiss taste like it could be the last, they don’t have to pray to survive until the end.</p><p>A movie would end on the Ferris wheel.</p><p>They part when the descent begins, careful not to draw any attention. It feels too prolonged to ignore it—that short moment when lips part but still stick to each other, that last, warm sigh as Draco’s taste lingers on Harry’s tongue and dissipates, leaving him hungrier then he was before. Draco’s eyes are like the onyxes on his cigarette case and his thumb still brushes Harry’s cheekbone until the cheerful buzz of the fair reaches them once again and the bubble bursts.</p><p>They get off the ride and as soon as they’re out of eyeshot, Draco grabs Harry’s elbow and drags him off to the side.</p><p>“We, ah,” he mutters, hand moving to palm at Harry’s ribs. “We need to go somewhere secluded. Right now.”</p><p>Harry’s brows knit in concern. “What’s wrong?” He looks back, wondering if Draco saw something suspicious, maybe a familiar face in the crowd, and cold dread starts crawling up his neck.</p><p>Draco pushes him back a few steps until he has Harry against a large oak tree in a small clearing off the nearest path. The sounds of commotion are almost completely drowned out by the thick foliage around them and Harry watches Draco take a steadying breath. “You have to immediately Apparate us to our room because—the things I want to do to you right now might be <i>illegal</i> in several countries—”</p><p>Harry lurches forward and, as soon as their lips meet, they disappear.</p><p>The land in a stumble, tangled in a mess of lips and limbs—Draco’s already pulling on Harry’s shirt, bending down to kiss up his ribcage and circle his nipples with rapid flicks of his tongue. “I want you,” he gasps and pushes Harry onto the huge bed. “Fuck, I want you.”</p><p>They kiss, again, and again, and Harry wonders what has got into Draco, already feeling his own arousal take the reins. Draco’s on top of him, his moonlight fringe grazing Harry’s forehead and he’s looking at Harry like he’s the only person in the world, with surprised wonder in the slight shiver of his hand as he slides a thumb over his lower lip.</p><p>“I take it you enjoyed it,” Harry murmurs, hands already cupping Draco’s arse, leaning up for another kiss.</p><p>“It was—aaah-acceptable,” Draco pants as Harry thrusts up, rubbing their clothed erections together.</p><p>“It’s odd, seeing you enjoy something <i>Muggle</i>,” he whispers amusedly, trying to help Draco out of his shirt. “Not bad, just… new.”</p><p>“If you’re going to rub something in my face, I’d much rather be it your gigantic cock,” he deadpans and throws the offending garment to the side.</p><p>Draco’s sitting on top of him, all flushed skin and perfect teeth, and he’s so beautiful, Harry forgets about everything else for a moment. “<i>Fuck</i>, Draco. Come here.”</p><p>They take their time and this strange, breathtaking night is different from all their other ones. There’s a debilitating reverence to Draco’s touches, as he slowly, methodically, rids Harry of his clothes, kisses down his body, anointing it with hot licks and breathy gasps. There’s also a strange giddiness permeating the air, they laugh softly and roll about the bed, naked, flushed, and close. <i>Happy</i>.</p><p>Harry’s on top of Draco when he pauses, places a chaste kiss to his lips, and brushes his fingers over his face. “Do you—” he trails off, unsure how to put it into words, that uncomfortable feeling of <i>temporary</i> biting at the back of his mind, and the complete, disarming softness in Draco’s face only making it that much harder.</p><p>“What?” he whispers.</p><p>“Do you think we’re being… stupid?” Harry finally asks, the conversation Draco had with Zabini all those weeks ago pushing itself to the forefront of his mind.</p><p>Draco flips them over in lieu of answering, and looks down at Harry with an unreadable expression, absently tracing Harry’s bicep with his finger.</p><p>Unable to stop himself this time, Harry lifts a shaky hand and, with his stomach in knots, puts his finger over the largest Sectumsempra scar. The raised flesh is smooth and warm under the pad of his finger and Harry moves it sideways, feeling the kerb of the scar, remembering how it looked back when it was a bleeding gash and, inexplicably, fears it might open up on him once again. He stops breathing altogether when Draco doesn’t push his hand away—with his mouth open around a question he won’t ask, Draco places his own hand over Harry’s, flat over the place his heart is. They stay like that for a few seconds, in deafening silence, until Draco collects himself.</p><p>He bends down to pull Harry’s lip between his teeth. “I thought we were on the same page here,” he murmurs.</p><p>“The page being…?”</p><p>“That this”—he thrusts his hips sharply, making Harry cry out.—“is reckless— another thrust, their cocks sliding together hotly—“ill-advised—ah!” He presses his forehead against Harry’s, biting his lower lip. “Completely unprofessional,” Draco whispers and leans over to the nightstand where Harry’s wand is lying.</p><p>For a second, Harry freezes, pinned down to the bed by Draco who’s aiming his own wand at him, his hair is complete disarray, cock plump and wet, bobbing against his stomach. He looks like some powerful sex deity, drenched in sweat and completely debauched, skin shining gold in the headboard lights, and Harry’s cock twitches when Draco raises the wand.</p><p>He feels a cool dollop of magic pour over him, head to toe, as Draco removes the remnants of their Glamours.</p><p>“—and absolutely brilliant,” Draco finishes, throwing the wand away and, once again, assaulting Harry with lips, teeth, and tongue.</p><p>They move together in a devastating rhythm, bodies slick with their mingled sweat. Harry never expected that sex with someone could feel like this—it’s like crashing with an entire galaxy with Draco in its centre. He’s the single brightest star, his every move and gasp blinding and brilliant, his every kiss like liquid electricity, pouring over Harry’s skin as they take each other apart into atoms. And Harry just lets him, with a terrifying certainty that once his nerves are reduced to a puff of stardust, Draco will gather every single bright shard and put him back together with his eyes closed, mending the edges with the tips of his fingers.</p><p>For now, though, Harry’s perfectly content with being in pieces.</p><p>It’s the best fuck they’ve had so far and they haven’t got to the actual fucking yet—in his lust-addled state, Harry decides that if all foreplay looked like this, no-one would ever care about coming. Then again, he’s the one bastard lucky enough to be doing it with Draco Malfoy. Draco, who’s currently doing something so brilliant with his tongue, Harry’s whole cock feels like it’s on fire as he watches that perfect, lithe body arch beautifully for Harry to admire.</p><p>He comes back up to bury his tongue in Harry’s mouth and Harry’s legs instinctively wrap around his waist as they slowly rock together. “I’ll have you know,” Draco breathes as they come up for air. “There are plenty of upsides to this. You see, the thing with two men having sex,” he purrs, adjusting the angle and making Harry let out a broken moan.</p><p>“Uh—uhm. Yeah,” Harry gasps, unable to muster up anything complex.</p><p>“It—ahhh!—prevents… unwanted pregnancies,” Draco grins and licks up a bead of sweat trickling down Harry’s neck.</p><p>“Really,” Harry rasps, trying to pull him closer, locking his thighs around Draco and feeling his muscles burn.</p><p>“Yeah,” he whispers and bites his earlobe. “Just two cocks—oh <i>fuck</i>, keep doing that—yeah, two hard, leaking cocks…”</p><p>“It’s also good for the—environment,” Harry groans, desperately trying to keep himself from coming. Which he still cares about, damn it all to hell.</p><p>Draco hums. “Do tell.”</p><p>“We could be—<i>oh god</i>—doing this in the shower,” he offers.</p><p>“Ahhh—Excellent point, Auror Potter.”</p><p>“I make—plenty of those,” Harry says.</p><p>“You’re saving water—and you will still—end up—wet,” Draco rasps, driving his hips in ruthless pushes, and at that moment, Harry has had enough.</p><p>“Fuck me.”</p><p>Draco pauses, panting, and looks at Harry with hooded eyes. “Wh—what?”</p><p>“Fuck me,” Harry whispers. “Please, I need—I need you. To fuck me.”</p><p>He expects Draco to maybe make a joke about Harry’s cock-potential going to waste or something of the sort, but Draco kisses him, deep and filthy, bumping their hands together, his fingers ghosting over Harry’s. Harry finally gets the hint—he casts the usual set of sex spells and Summons some lube that’s now dripping all over their tangled fingers and spreads his legs shamelessly, taking advantage of the lube and stroking his cock with a quiet hiss. Draco watches him, licking his lips, and grabs Harry’s wrist to make him stop.</p><p>All that happens next is decidedly the most mind-blowing, filthy-good, toe-curling sex Harry has ever had. Draco preps him with excruciating thoroughness, driving his fingers into him, and sucks him off from time to time, just to rile Harry up, to keep his arousal on a dangerously high level. By the time there are three fingers up his arse and a pool of precome glistening around his navel, Harry’s dizzily begging Draco to <i>get on with it</i>.</p><p>There’s a dangerous, playful glimmer in Draco’s eyes as he looks up for a split second and before Harry’s lust-fogged brain catches up, Draco repositions them so they’re both on their backs, Harry lying on top of Draco with his legs spread and placed on each side of Draco’s thighs.</p><p>“Look,” Draco’s voice is full of wonder as whispers the single word into his ear and then Harry sees it. The ceiling mirror.</p><p>Speechless, Harry looks at his fuck-drunk face with wet hair sticking to his forehead, and at his body, naked, sweaty and completely ruined, draped over Draco like a two-Knut whore. His cock pulses at the very sight and he spreads his legs further, seeing Draco’s mischievous smile as he slowly pushes his cock inside him.</p><p>Harry has never particularly liked the expression ‘fuck like animals’ but if <i>this</i> is what that means, he would be gladly called a dog for the rest of his life. Draco fucks into him in fast, unyielding thrusts and Harry cannot, for the life of him, take his eyes off their reflection. Normally, he would let his eyes fall closed and ride out the mounting waves of burning pleasure, but not tonight—not when he can clearly see Draco burying his nose behind Harry’s ear and sucking bruises into his neck, not when he’s fixated on the way Draco’s muscles shift under his skin, not when Harry sees his hole stretched around Draco’s cock, pumping in and out, as come and lube drip down onto the sheets.</p><p>“Look at yourself. Beautiful,” Draco whispers into his ear and Harry gasps, throwing his head back as he meets every one of Draco’s thrusts.</p><p>It’s the most erotic thing Harry has ever seen: the shared arousal etched into their faces, soaring higher and higher to reach its apex, Draco’s arms thrown over his shoulders and chest, holding him in place, and Harry’s fingers clutching the sheet, tight enough to rip.</p><p>His orgasm comes far too quickly for Harry’s liking, but he’s still helpless against it as Draco doesn’t pause his movements for even a second, and very soon, Harry’s coming all over his stomach, so hard he screams, for once not caring that someone might hear him. It takes Draco a few more thrusts into Harry’s lax, fucked-out body and he presses Harry’s hips down onto his cock as he comes inside him with a hoarse shout.</p><p>
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<hr/><p>Exactly two nights later, Harry wakes in the middle of the night and watches Draco sleep next to him, completely naked, with his arms wrapped around Harry’s chest, leg thrown over his hips, his face buried in Harry’s neck. The hotel bed sheets are now practically infused with his intoxicating smell and Harry, careful not to wake him, rubs his nose into the soft locks at the top of Draco’s head.</p><p>Like so many times before, Harry wonders how this could happen. He tries to analyse the past seven weeks, to connect the dots of their way to each other as if it were a messy treasure hunt with its grand prize now peaceful and safe in Harry’s arms. As he traces his favourite mole on Draco’s hip, Harry realises he doesn’t need to look for a reason anymore—it’s been in front of him all this time, and it wasn’t so much a hunt—it’s been a toilsome labour of stripping down the walls of a fortress to get to the treasury deep within. A sinking feeling of being completely and utterly doomed tightens its fist around Harry’s stomach and Harry tightens his arms around Draco. The reason is so obvious, he almost chokes with the weight of it.</p><p>It’s because Harry now knows that Draco smiles when he’s woken up with a kiss. Because Harry now sees that Draco deliberately lets his smile reach his eyes when he looks at him. Because Harry now understands they might have been afraid of the same things all along.</p><p>It’s because Draco might want him just for <i>him</i>, not for the power at the tips of his fingers that could turn death away, and not for the scar on his forehead.</p><p>The realisation he’s developed feelings isn’t nearly as eviscerating as the thought that in some capacity, in some deep, hidden place inside Draco’s heart, those silly, but game-changing feelings might be reciprocated.</p><p>For now, Harry lets himself melt into porcelain skin and almond-smelling sheets, and waits for the inevitable endgame.</p><p>The bubble bursts sooner than he expects—the next morning, Harry, still buried under Draco’s sleeping body, gets a text from Ron.</p><p>Ron [6:44]<br/>
<i>They changed the trial date. You need to get to London, now. Come to the Ministry.</i></p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
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    <p>They Apparate in a narrow alley, right across the street from one of the lesser-used Ministry entrances.</p><p>Harry has been calling Ron all morning, ever since he first read his text. His friend hasn’t answered any of his calls and Harry’s currently trying to rate all the dark scenarios in his head from ‘pretty bad’ to ‘everyone is dead’. He blames himself; for dropping his guard, for letting himself get distracted, and he wants to blame Draco a little, too, but knows he couldn’t do that without lying to himself.</p><p>After Harry received the message, they were ready to leave in under ten minutes, with everything packed, the room cleared of any evidence they’ve been there, and a hefty tip left on the cupboard for the housemaid. It took them six Apparitions to finally land where they’re standing—it could have been done in two, maybe three, but the longer the distance, the stronger the magical trace, and Harry refused to put them at risk like that. He’s still chaotically going through all the stop points in his mind, making sure they didn’t miss anything, a suspicious figure, a security camera, anything that could lead their enemies to believe they’re back in London. Harry’s patting down his jacket to make sure his wand is still there when a pair of strong hands grab him by the shoulders and then he’s pressed against a damp alley wall.</p><p>“You’re spiralling,” Draco says calmly, the tiny crease between his eyebrows betraying his calm facade. “What are you thinking?”</p><p>Harry exhales, trying to find solace in the steel grey of his eyes, like two tidal pools at dusk, cool and tranquil in their resolve. “I—” He trails off. “Why did they change the date? Why isn’t Ron answering? What if we’re walking into a trap?” He shoots off the questions that have been bouncing around in his head like stray bullets, driving him insane for the last two hours.</p><p>“Harry,” Draco says urgently, one of his hands moving to cup his cheek. Harry goes quiet at the use of his first name. “While I’m not saying these… concerns are unfounded—” He takes a sharp breath. “You need to turn off that— Auror switch in your head. It’s not like we’ll get killed as soon as we step through the door.”</p><p>Harry stares at him for a few seconds, wondering where Draco’s flair for the dramatic has gone and whether it’s possible it has somehow transferred onto him. He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, all right. It’s just…”</p><p>“Strange.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>They use the old entrance; Harry actually only knows about it by accident—he’s friendly with the janitor on their floor and the old man mentioned maintenance staff often uses it for convenience as it leads to a side corridor near the Atrium. When Harry and Draco finally reach the main hall, they find it completely empty. It’s awfully unsettling, reminding Harry of that one fateful night in the Department of Mysteries in his fifth year as their steps echo off the high, arched ceiling, without a single soul in sight.</p><p>“What the—” Harry starts, but sees Draco beckon him towards the large notice board by the reception desk. There’s a variety of small announcements and notices, reminders, and lost and found memos, some clearly from years ago, still stuck to the board with a Permanent Sticking Charm, the use of which is now prohibited by a metal plaque at the very top. A large notice is pinned over all the papers and parchments saying that the Ministry will be closed today, due to an unexpected malfunction of the Concealment Charms on several levels that need immediate maintenance under the risk of breaking the Statute of Secrecy.</p><p>Harry goes cold. Not a single ‘maintenance worker’, receptionist, or Auror can be spotted in the vicinity which means everyone has gone somewhere, or no-one’s in the building at all. A looming sense of dread starts to creep in, the feeling that something is very, very wrong, just like eight weeks ago, when he and Ron came to their floor and found it empty. And now Harry’s here again.</p><p>“Well,” Draco says, his hands on his hips. “We’re not dead yet, so there’s an upside. However, I did expect more of a welcome committee, ready to escort me before the face of justice. And that is the face of a wrinkly old man—”</p><p>Harry waves at him to be quiet, trying to think of an explanation as to what’s going on. He needs a starting point, he needs something to hold on to, a map that would guide his scattered thoughts, and help him to navigate the whole situation.</p><p>“I need to get to the Aurors’ office,” Harry finally says, some semblance of a plan beginning to crystallise. In moments like this, he misses Ron—his strategic thinking, the logic of a seasoned chess player that perfectly complements Harry’s rather wild and particular kind of brute force. It’s what makes them good partners—more of a ying-yang sort of balance, rather than brains and brawn—and at this moment, Harry really needs a dash of logic in the eerily empty Atrium.</p><p>“This should be interesting,” Draco mutters.</p><p>“Oh, no, <i>I’m</i> going to the Aurors’ office, you’re going to a secure location until I know exactly what’s going on,” Harry says, already seeing Draco’s pale eyebrows ride up his forehead.</p><p>“I will do no such thing!” Draco says indignantly, his body going stiff. “You cannot lock me up every time—”</p><p>“Draco,” Harry says coldly. “Let’s go.”</p>
<hr/><p>They’re standing in front of a small holding cell, very similar to the one Harry broke Draco out of at the very beginning of their journey. It’s full circle—they’re back where they started, only richer in a few significant developments, most of which make Harry’s heart stutter like a wild butterfly. The cell doesn’t look any different from all the other cells at the Ministry, but there are a select few that Harry knows about, including the one they’re standing in front of right now, that have a special trait Harry needs at the moment.</p><p>“You’re joking,” Draco deadpans. “Tell me you’re joking <i>right now</i> or I swear to Merlin—”</p><p>“Draco,” Harry repeats, unsure how to make the situation at least a little less awkward. It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal, but he can’t help feeling guilty for, once again, throwing Draco into a cell, especially considering what had happened the last time he had done so.</p><p>“Where’s the handle on this door?” Draco asks abruptly, eyeing the area around the keyhole with angry suspicion.</p><p>Harry inclines his head. “There isn’t one. Once it closes with someone inside, it can’t be opened with any spells, only with the key. This one, to be exact,” he says, showing Draco a simple metal key he’s just fished out of his pouch, a little tarnished with age but still fully functional. He wiggles it in the air and puts it back into his jacket pocket.</p><p>Draco frowns deeply, following his movement. “That sounds a little… old-fashioned.”</p><p>Harry shrugs. “Some criminals can cast wandless and this way, only an Auror with the key can open it.”</p><p>“I don’t like the sound of that, if you can believe it,” Draco sniffs, pursing his lips. “Is this really necessary?”</p><p>Harry lets out a heavy sigh. “Draco, I have to follow the procedure, and this way, no-one will be able to get to you, if things—” He trails off, unwilling to consider the option of things going south. “I’ll come back. There’s still a price on your head and this will keep you <i>safe</i>, Draco,” Harry says urgently, dread filling his lungs at the thought Draco might get hurt when they’re so close to the finish line he can almost taste it. There’s also the matter of the fierce, protective fire sizzling deep in his belly, a crippling panic as he imagines anything happening to Draco—it can’t happen, not now, not when they’re—</p><p>“Can I at least have my wand?” Draco asks, and Harry bites his lip.</p><p>“I can’t— Shit. If nothing’s wrong and you’re caught with it, it will only hurt your case,” Harry explains, wondering why on earth he thought this would be easy, as if Draco has ever made anything easy—all things involving the two of them have always been nothing short of a tornado of circumstances, sucking them in with an unyielding force. “It will be fine. I’ll go back to the Atrium and take a look around, try to call Ron—”</p><p>“Come here.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>In the next second, Draco is pulling Harry into a deep, hard kiss, hands gripping at his clothes, their bodies flush together. Harry kisses him back with everything he has, and it’s over way too soon but they both know it’s not about the slide of their lips or any kind of pleasure. It’s a statement, as clear as day, it’s <i>I trust you</i>, it’s a plea and a promise, all melted into the single touch of lips.</p><p>They part, and Draco takes a step back, gazing at Harry with a heavy expression. Harry closes the door shut and rushes down the hall.</p>
<hr/><p>When Harry gets back to the Atrium, he lets out a relieved sigh. He can see Robards, standing in the distance by the central fountain. He’s pacing nervously and stops dead in his tracks, staring at Harry with a deer-in-the-headlights expression, his silent shock strangely disconcerting.</p><p>“Sir,” Harry breathes, jogging up to him. “Where is everyone? I can’t reach Ron, and what’s with this maintenance—”</p><p>“Where’s Malfoy?” Robards asks abruptly, drawing his wand.</p><p>Harry stops in his tracks, heart racing, as he frowns at his boss. He looks… almost sick. There are beads of sweat gathering at his temples, his Auror uniform is crumpled and askew, and the heavy, dark bags under his eyes make him look like he hasn’t slept in a week. Harry notices the slightest limp in his right leg as Robards takes a few torpid steps towards him, and he has never limped before. Several red lights start rapidly at the back of Harry’s mind, all of them bringing an unsettling feeling of <i>wrong</i>—his boss, alone and looking like he might collapse any second, the empty Ministry, and <i>where is Malfoy</i>? A strange question to ask Harry, after he’s been on the run with Draco for the past eight weeks, a mission Robards oversaw himself.</p><p>“Sir, is… everything okay?” Harry asks slowly. His right hand tingles slightly as that bad feeling spreads from his core and Harry clenches the muscles in his thigh to make sure his wand is still in his holster. “You look—”</p><p>“Did you lock him up?” Robards asks with a manic glint in his eyes, looking around the hall impatiently. “Level seven?”</p><p>Harry’s discomfort reaches unsettling levels, his thoughts racing, running over all the pros and cons, before he speaks. “Draco Malfoy is safe. I need to speak to the Minister, do you know where he is?”</p><p>Robards is quiet. Seconds pass as if they were minutes, and the initial suspicion lightly tugging on Harry’s gut now turns more insistent, turning up the heat along his spine as he tries not to make any assumptions that would go into the ‘doom’ category. Not yet. Taking advantage of the fact his boss’ back is turned, Harry slowly, quietly moves to a better vantage point.</p><p>“The Minister isn’t coming. We’re just waiting on a few more friends,” Robards says in a blank voice.</p><p>Harry’s blood runs cold.</p><p><i>They have someone in the DMLE. There’s a mole</i>. How did they know so much? How did they get so far as to manipulate the trial date? How did they roam free and unpunished for so long, right under the Ministry’s nose? Harry sometimes wondered, how no-one was ever discovered, even though all senior Aurors’ work correspondence is monitored, even though their wands are randomly checked? The answer is so terrifyingly simple, Harry feels bile rise in his throat; it wasn’t a senior Auror. It was <i>the Head Auror</i>.</p><p>“Friends?” Harry asks, starting to slowly circle the stop Robards is standing. “That’s what we call them now?”</p><p>The second Harry moves to draw his wand, Robards spins around and casts an <i>Expelliarmus</i> so fast, Harry’s wand immediately flies out of his hand. Luckily, he manages a wandless <i>Accio</i>, strong enough for his wand to stop mid-flight and fly back so fast, the wood lashes his palm.</p><p>“Try again,” Harry says coldly, setting aside all the thoughts racing around in his head, his mind clearing like the surface of a lake after someone throws a stone in it. Cool resolve slowly settles into his bones as he regards his boss—well, ex-boss, now that Harry thinks about it—and prepares for the final showdown.</p><p>“Of course, the Saviour and his unmatched power,” Robards rasps, moving away from the fountain. Harry can see through his technique so easily he wants to laugh—he stands against the man who had taught him everything he knew and while an old dog can still learn new tricks, Harry also has a few aces up his sleeve.</p><p>“And you,” Harry says, “you were the mole. You betrayed everyone—”</p><p>“I was the informant, true,” Robards says, shrugging, his wand still raised. “But there can be no betrayal if the fight is for a different cause.”</p><p>“You’re delusional,” Harry spits, already bored with the standoff, yet still curious about Robards’ motivations.</p><p>“I was made an offer,” he barks. “One I couldn’t refuse. And there were some additional perks, too.”</p><p>“You’ve betrayed everything you were supposed to stand for,” Harry growls, feeling his fury mount deep in his belly, thinking of all the lives lost due to the Family’s activity, all the children left without a parent, all the people that disappeared and were never found. Of all the evil and corruption nursed in the very heart of what was supposed to be the cradle of justice and righteousness, by the person who was meant to serve and protect. By the person Harry had once looked up to. “How could you?”</p><p>Robards looks at him and he suddenly looks so very tired and <i>old</i>. Resigned, he helplessly shrugs his free hand. “They have my wife,” he says in a broken voice.</p><p>Harry schools his expression not to show the panic crashing down on him—the <i>female guest</i>. It wasn’t Narcissa—it was never meant to be Narcissa, it was Robards’ wife. The Family wanted the DMLE to know they had found her in France so they had leverage, not over Draco, but over Robards. Which means…</p><p>“They didn’t want Draco. It was never about Draco, it was—”</p><p>“You, Potter,” Robards says calmly, clearly satisfied Harry’s put it together. “Malfoy was an… inconvenience, I’ll admit, but we have adapted. As it turns out, some parties find you to be quite a nuisance, especially if they’re planning to take over the Ministry,” he says, his tone suggesting he’s talking about the weather rather than a <i>coup d'état</i>. “People do love their symbols, don’t they? Without his token Golden Boy, Shacklebolt’s office will quickly lose all the trust put in them. After all, who lets a national hero die under their very nose? And then, the hand that has stricken their beloved saint will take the reins,” he says.</p><p>“You’re insane,” Harry whispers, shaking his head. “It’s never going to happen—”</p><p>“Isn’t it?” Robards asks. “People live in fear, under a government that’s unable to protect them. The Ministry is running around in circles like chickens with their heads cut off and in the meantime, their loved ones keep disappearing. And then, the only person they know would never let this happen disappears for eight weeks—just long enough to plant another seed of mistrust towards those who deem themselves the <i>winners</i>. It’s how the world works, Potter, it’s how people think, and those who can control what the public thinks, have the power.”</p><p>“And who’s that? You?” Harry scoffs.</p><p>“My name might have been on the list of potential candidates.”</p><p>“I knew it,” Harry growls, finally letting his anger bloom, spreading like hot, black smoke over his chest. “You don’t give a fuck about your wife, about—”</p><p>“Shut your <i>mouth</i>—” Robards shouts and, without a single warning, fires off a <i>Bombarda</i> at the large chandelier right above Harry’s head. He ducks at the last second, jumping off to the side as it crashes down on the marble floor in a rain of metal shards and broken glass.</p><p>Harry immediately responds with a flurry of curses, maintaining a <i>Protego</i> with his free hand. He manages to hit Robards once—a sharp, vicious Stinger sent flying to his bad leg, and the man howls in pain but keeps himself upright, never breaking his stance. They exchange fire like madmen, and the Head Auror doesn’t disappoint in reminding Harry he was the one who trained them all. He’s slower than Harry, but there’s an efficiency to his scarce movements and defensive spells, giving him the accuracy he needs while Harry ducks and takes cover, deflecting his curses with fast swishes of his non-wielding hand, already burning with the amount of magic he’s sending its way. Harry knows he should focus, knows he needs to keep his mind clear but his mind keeps screaming Draco’s name anyway. Draco, who’s locked up in a holding cell like a nicely wrapped welcome gift for the Family when they get here, Draco who’s wandless and who’s put his trust in Harry, and who still doesn’t know his mother is safe after all. Harry’s heart is pounding as he ducks, breaking his <i>Protego</i>, and instinctively pats around his pocket only to find it empty.</p><p>Firing off a roaring <i>Reducto</i>, Harry realises he doesn’t have the key. And then, he curses.</p><p>Of course, that kiss was a ruse. Draco wouldn’t have been caught dead participating in an act so clichée as kissing his secret, forbidden lover before letting him run off to save the day. And, of course, Draco would know how to distract Harry long enough to pickpocket him. Which means—</p><p>Suddenly, a well-aimed Knockback Jinx hits him square in the chest and Harry flies backwards into what’s left of the chandelier. He can feel a few pieces of sharp, broken metal drive into his back and he shouts as the stabbing pain spreads across his body. His wand is nowhere to be seen and Harry can’t get up, watching Robards run towards him with his wand in the air.</p><p>There’s another set of footsteps reverberating in the empty hall and Harry turns to see Draco running towards them with his gun aimed straight at Robards. He’s hurt—a trickle of blood drips down his face from a large wound at his temple, sticking his fringe into a bloody cluster, his suit is singed in a few places, and he has a split lip. But all Harry can focus on are his eyes—shining with unrestrained, wild fury, like two pools of molten silver as he zones in on Robards.</p><p>It happens too fast to know who fires first. Draco stops about thirty feet from them, panting with exertion, and raises his hand with the gun in one fluid movement, his arm sure and steady. The silver barrel of the gun shines in the sunlight spilling into the Atrium through the charmed glass ceiling. One heartbeat. Exhale.</p><p>Draco pulls the trigger.</p><p>As soon as the deafening gunshot echoes off the walls, a stream of vicious, orange light plummets towards him and hits Draco in the ribs. Harry doesn’t know where to look—in the corner of his eye, he sees Robards falling to the ground in silent shock, grasping at the bullet wound in his abdomen and trying to stop the blood gushing from the hole. When he turns to look at Draco, he’s lying in a slowly expanding pool of blood, moving raggedly to keep himself upright.</p><p>Harry’s heart stops beating altogether when he sees the gashing, mauled wound in Draco’s side, his blood flowing as if the spell opened a faucet. Letting out a hoarse groan, Harry forces himself to stand up, and fueled by the adrenaline rushing in his system like boiling water, he stumbles over to Draco.</p><p>It’s bad, it looks so bad, and Draco’s bleeding out, letting out soft, choked gurgles, and Harry doesn’t know what to do. There are footsteps in the background but he can’t lose his focus, he can’t let Draco die after everything they’ve been through.</p><p>Wand. His wand is lost somewhere, so Harry focuses as hard as he can, feeling hot, desperate tears burning his cheeks and blurring his vision as he gently folds his palms over Draco’s ribs, just like he did all those weeks ago. He doesn’t touch him, doesn’t want to cause him any more pain, and Draco watches with a half-present expression as Harry keeps whispering the spell he had once sworn to never forget: <i>Vulnera Sanentur</i>.</p><p>“<i>Vulnera</i>… Please, fuck, please, Draco,” Harry gasps, his hands shaking violently as he forces his core to channel all the damn magic that inhabits him. “<i>Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera</i>— don’t you fucking dare die right now!” He doesn’t care that his palms are burning like fire, that the magic glows red and angry. All Harry cares about is that the bleeding starts to slow down a little, and he smiles hysterically, whispering the incantation over and over, like the hymn of life itself. “That’s right, listen to me just this once, you bastard, and don’t die, not now—”</p><p>“Harry!”</p><p>The footsteps are getting closer and suddenly, Ron and Hermione are by his side, wide-eyed and terrified as they watch Draco’s wound close up a bit—still bleeding, still deadly, but controlled. Draco’s letting out shallow, laboured breaths as he looks at Harry with something akin to a smirk.</p><p>“Well,” he croaks, “My turn then.”</p><p>Harry feels a soft, small hand on his shoulder and hears Hermione’s soothing voice, but he can’t take his eyes off Draco long enough to focus on anything else. He hears more shouts in the background, more footsteps as Kingsley screams out orders to the Aurors and people run around to find all the intruders still roaming around the building.</p><p>“Ask,” Harry whispers, “just don’t strain yourself, don’t fall asleep—”</p><p>“Harry,” Hermione says quietly, shaking him a little. “Healers are on the way. Harry?”</p><p>“All this to you,” Draco whispers, “was it about sex or power?” He tries to chuckle, only to have it come out a heavy exhale.</p><p>“Harry, love,” Hermione says urgently, a shaky note lacing her voice. “They’re here, Harry, you need to let go now, let them help.” She gently tugs him away by the elbow until Harry finally relents, but not before tucking a bloodied, blond strand behind Draco’s ear.</p><p>“It was about you,” Harry whispers to himself, helplessly watching as the St Mungo’s Healers take over.</p><p>“Harry, you’re hurt, I’m Apparating us to Mungo’s, all right?” Hermione asks and, without waiting for an answer, takes his hand and then, they’re both swallowed into the aether.</p>
<hr/><p>Harry’s injuries turn out to be superficial, with only one deeper gash that’s quickly dealt with thanks to a little bit of Dittany. He’s discharged in under twenty minutes which means he can now go and find out about Draco. Covered in bruises, in a jacket that still carries the stench of curses, Harry corners the first Healer he sees, demanding information on Draco’s condition. The young man doesn’t know much and, quite terrified, asks Harry to have patience and maybe to go get some rest, explaining that the Healers are doing everything they can to stabilise Mr Malfoy. It’s all the same shite they always say to stifle people’s conscience and get them off their back and Harry takes advantage of the adrenaline still buzzing in his system and demands to see Draco.</p><p>In that moment, Ron, still wearing his Auror uniform, runs up to them and rescues the poor intern from the fiery pits of Harry’s wrath.</p><p>His best friend berates Harry a little, saying the poor lad doesn’t know anything anyway, and drags Harry away, casting a few Cleaning Charms at him while he’s at it.</p><p>Finally, they sit down in the dingy waiting room chairs, arm in arm, both nursing a cup of awful hospital coffee, both wearing grave expressions. They sit in silence that’s tense but companionable, something they’ve become adept at through years of friendship, and Harry’s grateful Ron doesn’t flood him with questions as soon as they have a minute alone.</p><p>Everything feels like an out of body experience. It’s barely midday and Harry has trouble connecting the dots between waking up next Draco who was warm, naked, and who smiled as Harry kissed him good morning, and whatever purgatory nightmare he’s in now. Draco—bleeding out onto a marble floor; Draco asking Harry unbelievable, absurd questions; Draco, who Harry thinks he might be in love with.</p><p>Ron stays with him for the rest of the day, with most of the Family caught and in custody, and their most prominent members being arrested as they speak. And speak they do, after over an hour of just sitting there and processing all that has happened.</p><p>“He stole my phone,” Ron says, disbelieving, as he takes a grave gulp of coffee. “I… I had no idea, mate. It was in my desk, I always kept it at work and he must have been snooping—”</p><p>“I got a text from you a few days ago, asking where I was,” Harry remembers. “It wasn’t you, was it?”</p><p>“Fucking hell,” Ron says, shaking his head. “I almost never text, hate those tiny buttons, I’m used to the Floo.”</p><p>Harry sniffs. “I thought it was meant for Hermione, didn’t answer.” They’re both staring ahead, just enjoying the warmth of the other’s shoulder as they talk and Harry thinks all of it is much more bearable with Ron by his side. Suddenly, he remembers seeing something as Hermione was Apparating them from the Ministry. “Was that Zabini with you? Back at the Ministry?”</p><p>Ron barks out a laugh. “Oh, that’s a whole other thing, I don’t know how he found me, he’s good,” he says begrudgingly, shaking his head.</p><p>“Yeah, I noticed.”</p><p>“If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have known you’d be there,” Ron says quietly, and they both know what it means. They wouldn’t have come. No-one would have known what went down in an empty Atrium with no witnesses. And sure, Draco still would have shot Robards, but then, he would have died there in Harry’s arms and the Family’s goons would have taken care of Harry shortly after, just like they had planned.</p><p>“How did you know we’d— I mean…” Harry trails off, trying to match the last pieces of the puzzle. His head still hurts from the fall and he takes another sip of coffee, hoping it will help.</p><p>Ron pipes up at that, clearly eager to tell Harry the story. Harry smiles weakly, welcoming the distraction. “So get this, Zabini came to me, saying he had heard something and that he promised he’d come to me if he heard any aliases. He picked up on some conversation, they said: ‘<i>Bluejay assured they’ll be there</i>’.”</p><p>Harry frowns. “Bluejay? What does that have to do with Robards?”</p><p>“I didn’t think much of it but then, I remembered Kingsley telling him something once—something like, ‘<i>send that bloody bird of yours when you’re done</i>’, or whatever, yeah? But Robards doesn’t have an owl, does he?”</p><p>Harry stares down his cup, still frowning.</p><p>“And have you ever seen his Patronus?”</p><p>Harry opens his mouth and pauses. “I… no. He always uses memos. Always.” He shakes his head. “But that still doesn’t mean anything.”</p><p>“I met his wife once, she came over to the bullpen to bring him something,” Ron says. “I just remembered… I was looking for an anniversary gift for Hermione at the time, right? Well that day, I saw Robards’ wife wearing a bluejay necklace so I kinda… Don’t tell Hermione that, yeah?” He eyes Harry with concern. “I kinda copied the idea and bought her that silver necklace she loves so much.”</p><p>“So since Robards was willing to kill for her…”</p><p>“And a bluejay was what he associated her with,” Ron continues, “it was safe to assume it was his Patronus. Hence the nickname. Symbolic, innit?”</p><p>“Shit,” Harry shakes his head again.</p>
<hr/><p>The next morning, Harry’s sitting in that very same chair, looking a little pathetic according to at least two Healers who both begged him to go home and promised to give him a call. Throughout the night, he managed to find out that Draco’s stable, but on a fuck-ton of Blood-Replenishing Potions, slowly getting better. While he can understand small victories and all, Harry still isn’t allowed to see him, which has put a significant damper on his mood.</p><p>This time, it’s Hermione who comes to keep him company.</p><p>“You need to get some sleep,” she says tiredly, sitting down next to Harry and treating him with a severe look.</p><p>Harry raises an eyebrow. “I did.”</p><p>“Here, in St Mungo’s?”</p><p>“See that chair?” Harry points to an old, creaky thing at the end of the hall, next to a large potted plant that has probably needed some Healer’s help for some time. “It transfigures to quite a decent lounger once you figure out how to fit it under the Invisibility Cloak.”</p><p>Hermione sighs, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She’s warm, and her hair smells like jasmine—it’s nice and comforting but not even close to sweet almonds. “Harry, you can’t sleep at the hospital and live off coffee and vending machine peanuts,” she says, her voice muffled by Harry’s jacket.</p><p>He snorts softly, feeling his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey, I had a pack of vending machine crisps yesterday.”</p><p>Hermione lets out a puff of air, craning her neck to look at him. “Ok, listen,” she says. “Ron will stay here. All right? He will not leave this spot until you come back, after you’ve got some sleep. And some actual food,” she adds, looking at him in a way that reminds Harry of Minverva.</p><p>Harry deflates, seeing the tiny tremble to her lower lip. Guilt floods his chest when Harry realises he’s worried his friends so much, too preoccupied with his own despair. “I…”</p><p>“Harry, please,” Hermione whispers. “You need to eat, you need a shower, you—”</p><p>“Fine,” he sighs and looks at her, a small, sad smile already tugging at her lips. “Let me know—”</p><p>“—if he wakes up, I know.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>She looks at Harry with her signature scrutiny, studying him like a book; and while Harry feels a bit exposed, he reckons there’s no use in hiding why exactly he’s here, or why he’s reacting so viscerally to the possibility of Draco not making it.</p><p>“Harry?”</p><p>“Yeah?” he asks in a small voice.</p><p>“I have to ask,” she whispers.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“Did you two…” She trails off, looking at her hands in her lap.</p><p>Harry exhales. One, two times, the images of him and Draco yesterday morning still fresh in his mind. “Yeah,” Harry whispers and swallows thickly. “Yeah, we did.”</p><p>Hermione doesn’t say anything, just lays her head on Harry’s shoulder, wrapping her arms around his. Harry squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the stinging feeling under his eyelids and inhaling her calming, flowery scent. He’s grateful for her, so much it aches, for how put-together she is when Harry’s falling apart at the seams, and for the way she doesn’t let go for a long time.</p><p>“He saved my life. He can’t die now,” Harry says quietly.</p><p>“I know, love. He won’t.”</p>
<hr/><p>Harry gets a Floo call from Mungo’s sometime after he wakes up from a sixteen-hour nap. He feels groggy and his head hurts so much it feels like it’s about to split in half, something he hasn’t felt since his scar-hurting times. He combs through the bathroom cupboard and hears the roar of flames just as he downs his last vial of Painkiller Potion, making a mental note to replenish his stash.</p><p>The Healer in the Floo must remember him, judging by his unamused look and the way his lips are folded into a thin line but the only thing Harry takes out of the brief conversation are the words: <i>he’s awake</i>. He sprints to the bedroom to change out of his pyjama pants, not paying any attention to the head in his fireplace, screaming something about ‘limited visit times’ and ‘still very weak’. Remembering about his manners, Harry runs back to thank him and Apparates on the spot.</p>
<hr/><p>“Potter!” Draco whips around as Harry comes through the door.</p><p>Harry’s heart is racing so fast, it’s about to jump out of his chest. Draco’s there, alive, even paler than usual, wearing a pair of soft joggers and wrapped in bandages. His hair is sticking out in every possible direction, his face is still a little bruised and Harry wants to burst out laughing with the tremendous relief filling his lungs to the very brim.</p><p>“Draco,” he whispers.</p><p>There’s a young Healer, behind Draco; a tall, dark-skinned woman whose long ponytail bounces ominously as she walks up to Harry. “Mr Potter, so glad you’re here,” she says, gracing him with a tired smile, clearly relieved she can leave the room. “Maybe you can explain the repercussions of massive internal bleeding to Mr Malfoy, <i>and</i> the necessity of bedrest in cases such as his,” she says, pointedly not looking at Draco. “I’ll leave you two alone.”</p><p>With that, the Healer leaves with a swish of her robes and then, there’s just the two of them.</p><p>Harry doesn’t say anything. All he can do is cross the room in two quick strides, seeing the uncertainty in Draco’s eyes and the way he’s biting the inside of his lip; the spiky knots in Harry’s stomach that have been suffocating him with fear for the last three days are gone the moment he pulls Draco into his arms.</p><p>He smells just like he always does, like sweet, delicate almond milk, now mingling with the crisp smell of a hospital, and Harry buries his nose behind Draco’s ear and inhales, completely unbothered by his bout of neediness. Draco doesn’t seem to mind, positively melting into the embrace, letting out an exhale that sounds as if he’s been holding it for at least as long as Harry waited for Draco to wake up.</p><p>Hand moving to cup Draco’s face, Harry kisses him, deep and paralysing, and Draco immediately responds with a soft whimper, opening up to him in a soft swipe of warm lips. All the terrified hunger Harry’s been carrying inside dissipates into nothing, meaningless in the face of the way Draco tastes, of the joy of seeing him in one piece, bruised and beaten but warm, and real, and <i>alive</i>.</p><p>They part, not yet ready to let go, standing there with their foreheads pressed together and Harry steals two more sweet, soft kisses, feeling Draco smile against his lips.</p><p>“You know how I hate to ruin a good moment,” Draco purrs, pulling at his lower lip playfully. “But, alas. Potter, you have to get me out of here, <i>right now</i>. They’re, ah.” He pauses, rolling his eyes. “They’re making me <i>piss into a pan</i>!” he hisses through clenched teeth, startling a laugh out of Harry.</p><p>“Not very dignified for a man of class like you,” Harry says seriously, running his hand through Draco’s soft hair, now finally free of dried blood, feeling the scab of his wound scratchy under the pads of his fingers. He kisses the spot, just because he can, with some amount of naive hope he could kiss it better.</p><p>“Precisely,” Draco looks at him with a raised eyebrow, a hundred percent serious.</p><p>“Well, the Healers say it’s just until your potions start to work, you had massive internal bleeding,” Harry says. “Again,” he adds, pursing his lips.</p><p>Draco sniffs. “Ah yes, lately I do sort of feel like a can of red spray paint, you shake me up a little and off I go!”</p><p>Harry laughs despite himself, a relieved, painless sound leaving his lungs like a breath of fresh air and he keeps kissing Draco, and carefully touching him all over as if making sure he’s not going to break.</p><p>He spends almost all day there, not really thinking about why the Healers are allowing this—it could be his name alone, as much as he’d usually hate to admit it; it could be Hermione or Ron secretly doing him a favour, talking to some old friends; or the Healers themselves, glad there’s at least one person in the entire wing who is capable of shutting Draco up. They talk about everything that happened, and Harry tells him about Robards, his wife, and how they thought it was Narcissa—Draco’s visibly relieved at that, although he turns a little pensive after Harry recounts the events. They avoid the topic of the upcoming trial—Hermione said the Wizengamot, now free of any corrupt judges, after a thorough cleansing conducted by Kingsley, has moved the date of Draco’s testimony so he can fully recover.</p><p>Apart from that, they mostly make out in Draco’s hospital bed, after Harry makes sure he won’t hurt him or open his wound. They have lunch that Harry’s brought from a little café down the street, and then the Healer lady from before tells him she’s been lenient enough and Harry needs to leave.</p><p>He goes back home on foot, feeling like he’s walking on clouds.</p>
<hr/><p>Harry’s good mood doesn’t last long. After a few blissful days of Draco recovering at St Mungo’s, the trials begin and Draco’s scheduled to testify as one of the first witnesses for the prosecution. Harry’s there every day, from dusk till dawn, listening to all the people that have been hurt by the Family. There’s a total of seventeen criminals put on trial, but it’s just the first one of the many that are to come, once a solid case is built against them. Finally, Harry gets to listen to the long-awaited Draco Malfoy testimony, sitting in the public gallery that hasn’t changed a bit since he’s last been there. The same cold, dark wooden benches, those very same chains whose rattles still make him suppress a shiver, and two Dementors, silent and terrifying, watching over the prisoners. Harry’s heart goes out to Draco who’s reliving the nightmare of standing before the judges, only this time, he’s not the one on trial. He’s a crown witness, under the protection of the DMLE, just so this day could happen; so he could share everything he’s seen in the years he had worked with the accused, so he could help put them in Azkaban.</p><p>Draco’s wand will be returned to him only after he testifies so Harry sends his stag Patronus to keep watch. It is allowed now—not for the defendants—but anyone giving their testimony can have a Patronus accompany them in order to avoid any unpleasantness associated with the Dementors present. Draco looks at Harry across the room as the stag dashes over to him, its large antlers illuminating the stand and bathing it in an ethereal glow. His Patronus lightly nudges its nose against Draco’s wrist and Harry notices Draco’s hand stop shaking.</p><p>Their combined testimonies last for two and a half workdays, after which they’re dismissed from the stand and Harry feels like he’s woken up from a nightmare. He remembers leaving the elevator and thinking <i>it’s finally over</i> but as it turns out, another nightmare was about to unfold before his eyes.</p><p>To say that reporters are waiting in front of the Ministry is a gross understatement—they’ve virtually built a small encampment, collectively jumping to their feet as soon as they see Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who hastily retreat back inside, opting to use to the Floo to get to Grimmauld. Draco has to stay behind, to sign a heap of paperwork regarding his deal and finally get his wand back, and while Harry hates that he has to leave him there, he decides it’s not a big deal to wait just a little more before they can take the first real breath after all they’ve been through.</p><p>He realises just how wrong he was when two days later, Harry receives an owl.</p><p>
  <i>Harry,<br/>
I wish we could talk in private, however, seeing the circumstances, we will not get to. Well, at least not without an entire photoshoot documenting the intimate reunion of the redeemed criminal and his brave bodyguard. If only they knew… Can you imagine?<br/>
I feel I should inform you that I left for France to check on Mother as soon as they signed off my wand back to me. I know it’s rather rude, to leave without so much as a goodbye, but if anyone can understand that I need to make sure she’s safe, it’s you. There’s also some unfinished business that requires my presence here. You have the right to be cross with me for leaving and, quite frankly, I’m not even sure if you’ll read this letter until the end or rather cast it into the fireplace as you’re reading.<br/>
I won’t blame you, just so you know.<br/>
There’s a lot of things I want you to know, things that I haven’t made perfectly clear, but they need to wait for now, as much as I hate to put them on hold. I will be back in London soon and try to get a hold of you when I get there.<br/>
Do try to get some sleep. I promise I’ll be back.<br/>
Yours,<br/>
D.</i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>One month since Draco left.</i>
</p><p>The doorbell at Grimmauld chimes at the beginning of January, on a cold afternoon, and Harry, glad that Kreacher is staying at Hogwarts full-time now, gets up from the sofa with a soft grunt and jogs to the door. Ron and Hermione aren’t supposed to come over for at least another few hours, but Harry doesn’t mind—initially, he did have some trouble warming up to the idea of his friends checking up on him, as if he were a sick Victorian woman about to collapse from a broken heart. It took Harry until Christmas to understand they just wanted the best for him, and to spend time with him—not out of pity, but because they enjoyed his company, no matter what a tosser he’s been lately.</p><p>Harry opens the door and his legs nearly give out under him.</p><p>Draco is standing at the bottom of the little stairs leading to his door, wearing an expensive-looking, black wool coat, and a pair of sleek, black leather gloves. The falling snowflakes are already forming a soft halo over his wavy fringe. His mouth falls open in a quiet exhale when he sees Harry—who’s in a pair of soft grey joggers, wearing a t-shirt, incidentally one that Draco himself had slept in—and staring at Draco in complete and utter shock.</p><p>Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, Draco climbs up the stairs, careful not to slip on the fresh layer of snow, and finally, after four bloody weeks of complete silence, he stands before Harry in the flesh.</p><p>“Hi,” he says simply, and Harry feels his magic tingle at the tips of his fingers, fiery and angry, the lion inside him awakening from its slumber.</p><p>Slowly, like he means it, Harry grabs Draco by the collar of his ridiculous, sexy coat and pulls him closer so their faces almost touch. “Inside,” he growls and pushes him away, making Draco stumble a bit.</p><p>Draco adjusts his collar and follows Harry inside the house. “Ah, yes, let’s keep the violence domestic, like in the old days?” he says conversationally, with a barely-audible nervousness lacing his tone.</p><p>Harry ignores him, feeling his fury bubbling on a low simmer, deep in his gut, filling his lungs with black smoke, and sending little hot pulses of magic down his arms. “Kitchen,” he barks, not looking back, Draco’s footsteps the only indicator he’s following. He pulls out his phone, types a quick text to Ron that he won’t be able to make it today, and throws the phone onto the table with a loud clatter.</p><p>They enter the kitchen and he can already fucking smell it, that god-like, intoxicating, saccharine smell and Harry wants to suck it out of Draco’s skin just as much as he wants to punch him.</p><p>In the end, he goes for the latter.</p><p>Harry turns around with a flourish, swings his arm, and all air leaves him as he punches Draco square in the jaw with a particularly mean right hook. Draco stumbles once again, and Harry swears he sees a drop of blood splatter off to the side when he throws the punch. His suspicions are confirmed when Draco straightens and there’s a narrow trickle of bright-red blood at the corner of his mouth.</p><p>Harry’s breathing heavily, feeling some of his anger dissipate, replaced by an aching, empty space as he watches Draco wipe some of the blood with the back of his hand.</p><p>“I suppose I had it coming,” he says calmly, not daring to look up.</p><p>Harry comes closer, panting heavily, grabs Draco by his jacket, and slams him so hard against the wall, a vase on the nearest shelf rattles ominously. He brings their faces closer, watching Draco’s eyes darken as he swipes the remnants of the blood with his thumb, pressing a tiny healing spell to the spot; he can hear Draco’s soft intake of breath as he feels Harry’s now-familiar magic swipe over his skin, and Harry can’t stop himself from brushing that lower lip with his thumb.</p><p>And then, he finally claims Draco’s mouth.</p><p>Harry kisses him with all the anger and desperation that have been festering inside him for the last four weeks, bites Draco’s lower lip with all the built-up despair from thinking he'd never again feel it give under his teeth, slips his tongue inside his mouth to claim him like he’s never been gone in the first place. Draco melts against the wall, arching into his touch, and letting out a soft whimper as he opens up and lets Harry devour him.</p><p>When they part for air, it’s with a loud, wet smack, their lips spit-slick and bruised, and Harry swipes his tongue under Draco’s upper lip just once, just to taste him again.</p><p>“You better start talking,” Harry whispers, dangerously calm.</p><p>“Well,” Draco breathes, still trying to chase Harry’s mouth. “This welcome, however exciting and quite diverse, is also remarkably confusing—”</p><p>“You’re treading on thin fucking ice as it is—”</p><p>“All right, all right,” he says placatingly, getting his hands off Harry. “After you.”</p><p>Harry doesn’t invite Draco to the living room. He’s not even sure he should invite him to his bedroom ever again, but the very thought of never doing it with him again makes something screeching claw at the inside of Harry’s ribcage. He props himself up against the kitchen table and crosses his arms. “Talk.”</p><p>“Harry, please,” Draco says quietly.</p><p>“Do I get a question?”</p><p>Draco frowns, letting out a soft exhale. “Of course.”</p><p>Harry licks his lips, nodding slowly. “A <i>month</i>, Draco?!” he exclaims, stifling his magic as he hears a few glasses rattle in the cupboards. “Without a fucking word?”</p><p>“Aren’t you going to ask me why I came back?” Draco asks.</p><p>“I was hoping I’d know why,” Harry says.</p><p>Draco inclines his head. “You think you know. But that’s not all of it.”</p><p>“All right,” Harry says. “So I’ll start with: why did you leave? Because the fucking excuses in that <i>letter</i> you sent me aren’t going to cut it,” he adds, still remembering crumpling up Draco’s letter and fishing it out of the bin later. Pathetic.</p><p>“I left because…” Draco trails off and sighs, looking at the ceiling as if it holds a perfect answer to placate Harry’s anger. He tries again. “I needed time. I’ll have you know I honestly did visit my mother and found her in good health no less. There were also some… real estate issues that needed my attention, and well. I really did have to sort it all out,” he says quickly, listing all the reasons as if he’d learned them by heart. He toys with the hem of his jacket when he quietly adds: “Also, as much as I’d hate to admit it, I was scared.”</p><p>“But you came back.”</p><p>Draco nods. “I came back. And I know what you think—I came back for you. And while that is… well, correct”—he laughs nervously—“it was also for me, you know? And don’t get me wrong, I hated to feel self-serving yet again, and… what I’m about to say might sound selfish,” he says, looking at Harry with a frown.</p><p>“What a surprise,” he deadpans, but the seed of curiosity has been planted, and Harry uncrosses his arms, listening.</p><p>Draco takes a breath. “It was about you but not entirely in the way you think. All that’s happened… <i>I</i> wasn’t directly responsible for that, do you see?” Draco says, a strange wonder lacing his voice. He shrugs. “Not all of it, at least. So I came back for me, too, Harry. After the trial, I was finally my own person and it made me realise that there’s a chance for me, still. So I also left to have some space to think. About if I should... take that chance.”</p><p>Harry bites his lip. He wasn’t expecting that, but all the things Draco is telling him are filling him with a strange sort of joy as Harry slowly starts to understand what Draco is trying to say. “Yeah, I get it, Draco.”</p><p>Draco deflates a little, as if an enormous pressure was lifted off his shoulders. He laughs nervously, and maybe a little manically. “And I’m taking it by coming back to England. And, in consequence”—he gestures to Harry—“to you. If— If you’ll still have me, that is. And my hope is that you would prefer me this way, rather than a wilting flower, vegetating by your side. Because I’m not one.”</p><p>They’re silent for a while and if Harry’s heart was speeding up before, it’s now completely out of control, fluttering with pride, and yearning, and understanding that dawns on him as he weighs Draco’s words. Because Draco, to be with Harry, to truly be with him, needed to feel that he chose it. And this, it’s Draco choosing him.</p><p>“I need you to understand, Harry,” Draco says, and it doesn’t escape Harry how he hasn’t used his last name once since he came. “I probably would have come back even if you hated me, albeit with quite a bit more dejection. So…”</p><p>“So,” Harry sighs.</p><p>“Well— Fuck, say something,” Draco says, a little helplessly.</p><p>“Long version or short version?” Harry asks, raising a brow.</p><p>Draco opens his mouth, and then closes it, humming. “Hmm, there are two outcomes—you’ll either take me or reject me. And I’ll hear a speech before you either throw me out of the door or let me fuck you through the bed <i>into the floor</i>,” he says, weighing his options as if it was buying groceries. Harry feels a flush creep up his neck. “So, in both cases, I’d prefer for said outcome to occur sooner rather than later. Short version, please.”</p><p>He comes closer, sliding his arms around Draco’s waist. “I haven’t forgiven you yet,” he murmurs against Draco’s lips.</p><p>“Of course,” Draco whispers, shaking a little under his touch.</p><p>“But I understand. And I chose you a long time ago, knowing all that. And now…”</p><p>“And now, I’m choosing you,” Draco says and kisses him, turning them around and pressing Harry against the wall.</p><p>“Now,” Harry mutters between kisses, “let’s get to that outcome, yeah?”</p><p>They don’t stumble to the bedroom like they ought to, to check all the boxes under their very own clichée scenario—Harry Apparates them directly onto his bed and Vanishes their clothes with a wave of his hand. There’s no ceiling mirror this time, but all Harry needs to see is Draco’s face anyway; his body, his muscles contracting as he fucks into Harry with abandon, looking him in the eyes and whispering how much he missed him. Harry gets to have him, to kiss him all over once again. After nearly half an hour, when Harry has Draco howling in pleasure, covered in their mingled sweat, precome, and saliva, he only pulls his tongue out of Draco’s arse to tell him how fucking amazing he tastes.</p><p>They soar and crash time and again and take each other apart in every possible way until they both collapse from exhaustion in a heap of tangled limbs and tousled hair.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>One month and seventeen hours since Draco left.</i>
</p><p>When they wake up in the wee hours of the morning, it’s still dark outside, but neither can bring themself to fall back asleep. Instead, they stay in bed and kiss, dizzily, between whispered conversations and careful touches. It should be awfully tacky but not even Draco, forever ready to mock such practices, says a single word when Harry finally gets to kiss that gorgeous beauty mark on his hip, laving it with attention until Draco lets out a laugh that breaks out from between his soft moans, saying Harry’s obsessed with it. Harry doesn’t deny it.</p><p>“I wonder,” Harry says, propping himself up on one arm. He messily traces the outlines of Draco’s muscles, with his index finger. “If things will be any different than they were back on the road.”</p><p>Draco sighs, absently kissing Harry’s finger pad as he traces it over his lips. “Potter, I’m not what you want me to be, or rather what you think I might secretly be,” he says amusedly, but there’s an underlying anxiety in the way he chooses his next words. “And while I am capable of change, I might never become that, not fully.”</p><p>“I don’t care about that,” Harry says.</p><p>Draco rolls his eyes and scoots closer, hooking his leg over Harry’s hip. “Yes, you do. Caring is literally at the top of the List of Things Harry Potter Does. And we talked about this, remember? You will give up your comfort just to appease everyone around you and call it kindness.”</p><p>“So if you’re not what you think I want, then what are you?” Harry asks, tucking his hair behind his ear.</p><p>“I’m— Ah. Spoiled. And I can be cruel if I want to. I’m possessive and vicious and your friends will hate me and it will tear whatever this is apart,” Draco says, slowly shaking his head. “And we will fight, we will always fight, and I will say the cruellest, most uncalled for things just to stab you where it hurts the most— I—”</p><p>Harry stops him with a kiss. “You’re also good. You <i>want</i> to be good, and not just for me, but for yourself. You’re so clever I sometimes can’t keep up with you, and you’re strong, Draco, sometimes I think you’re so much fucking stronger than I am,” he says, right against his temple, kissing over his hair, and Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s waist. “And me?” Harry laughs. “I’m stubborn, Draco I’m so fucking stubborn it’s insane. I spiral, and I don’t think before acting and I forget about people’s feelings. I just do whatever I think is right and—” He exhales. “And you. Well. You pull me back.”</p><p>“Oh dear god, you think it’s some sort of a heart-versus-logic scenario,” Draco groans, and Harry laughs.</p><p>“What I think— Well. I think goodness doesn’t come easy to you. Before, everything was a… transaction, wasn’t it? Someone scratches your back, you scratch theirs,” Harrys says, looking at him with a slight smile. “Like with the question game.”</p><p>“I… suppose.”</p><p>“See, the thing is, I don’t want anything in return, not in a… <i>quid pro quo</i> kind of way. Like when you blow me,” he says, and Draco snorts at Harry speaking his language. “Do you expect anything in return?”</p><p>“No,” Draco murmurs, kissing him lightly. “I just want to taste you,” he says and falters. “Oh god, you’ve turned me into a sop.”</p><p>“I just think I bring out your more... human side.”</p><p>“Yes, that’s what I said.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>One month, twenty-one hours and thirty-two minutes since Draco left.</i>
</p><p>The sound of the Floo startles them apart just as Harry is starting to take their morning in the kitchen to the next level. There’s a small commotion in the living room and Harry quickly recognises the voices as Ron and Hermione.</p><p>“Harry? Hello!”</p><p>“Kitchen!” Harry shouts back, looking at Draco with an uncertain smile. Draco just smiles back.</p><p>Hermione’s bushy hair appears in the doorway first. “We came to check up and— oh.” She frowns a little, not in an especially mean way, but rather with the fascination she’d give to a particularly interesting book. Behind her, Ron watches Harry with a knowing smile. They regard Harry and Draco’s state of undress with amusement and while Harry feels a little exposed in just a pair of black boxer shorts, Draco doesn’t even seem to notice that all he’s wearing is a similar pair of underwear and one of Harry’s shirts he had snatched earlier, open just enough for everyone to see his neck, shoulders and chest dappled with an array of angry lovebites.</p><p>Draco is the first one to break the silence. “Yes, so this happened, no use being coy now, I suppose.”</p><p>“So you’re back in England,” Hermione states, a slight smile tugging at her lips.</p><p>Draco flashes her a mischievous smile. “And you’ll surely be delighted to hear I’m staying for good,” he purrs and looks at Harry. “Never expected to be caught <i>in flagrante delicto</i> with the Saviour himself, though.”</p><p>“For good?” Hermione raises her eyebrows in challenge. “Why?”</p><p>Draco opens his mouth for a second too long. “Well—”</p><p>“Yeah, Draco, why?” Harry asks, abandoning all hope of putting on a t-shirt. Instead, he jumps up on the kitchen counter and watches his… charge-turned-lover-turned-maybe-boyfriend in amusement as Draco squirms.</p><p>“It has come to my attention that I still have… prospects here,” he says haughtily.</p><p>“Oh, pray tell, what prospects?” Ron pipes in, catching onto their collective teasing. Ron never misses the opportunity to mock Draco.</p><p>Draco, however, smiles playfully, quickly applying the old truth that a snake in a lion den is bound to bite. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says casually, his fringe falling into his eyes. “Maybe prospects that have gorgeous green eyes, luscious skin, and other significant… endowments. Prospects that, before we were oh-so-rudely interrupted, were up for round…” He pretends to count on his fingers, watching with a satisfied smirk as Harry hides his red face in his hand, Ron breaks into a coughing fit, and Hermione chuckles, shaking her head.</p><p>“Ron, I think this is as far as our check-up can go,” Hermione says with a laugh and they turn to leave. “We’ll keep in touch.”</p><p>“Wait! Wait—” Draco waves his hand, seeing Harry’s exasperated face. “Apologies, the Saviour had me all… loose. Also, ah,” he stumbles, his cheeks taking on a faint pink flush. “There are also <i>prospects</i> for which I may or may not have... significant… feelings.”</p><p>Harry’s friends shoot them both a knowing smile and go back to the living room. Before they catch up, Harry places a soft kiss on Draco’s lips.</p><p>Hermione turns around one last time, with one leg already in the Floo. “Oh, and Draco? Just so you know—it’s going to be hard to keep it from you since you’ll be at our house for dinner every other Sunday… I’m an Unspeakable,” she says with a brilliant smile and with that, they both leave.</p><p>They stand there in silence and Draco’s shaking his head with an impressed look on his face. “Oh, Granger, even after all these years… I always remembered to never underestimate her.”</p><p>“Yeah, her training was rough,” Harry says, moving to peel off Draco’s shirt, still remembering what they were doing before the short interruption.</p><p>“Adorable,” Draco murmurs and helps him with the shirt.</p><p>Harry pauses and frowns. “What?”</p><p>“She told me she’s an <i>Unspeakable</i>,” Draco says pointedly. “Should have sorted Slytherin.”</p><p>“I don’t understand.”</p><p>Draco smiles as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s boxers. “She managed to give me a chance,” he says, kissing Harry’s collarbone. “Bind me”—another kiss, going lower—“and threaten me,” he says, biting Harry’s nipple. “All in one sentence.”</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>Forty-eight hours since Draco has come back.</i>
</p><p>“Have I told you I sold my house in France?” Draco asks casually.</p><p>They’re in bed again after two days of undisturbed bliss, full of just touching, kissing, fucking, and re-learning one another’s bodies after a long month apart. Draco’s draped over Harry like a mischievous cat, his platinum hair bathed gold in the sun rays spilling into the bedroom. Harry wonders if he’ll ever get tired of this—touching him like no-one else is allowed to, getting to see the side of Draco he doesn’t show to many, and being the reason for the way he’s smiling down at him.</p><p>“But what about your mum?” Harry asks, brushing his palm up and down his back.</p><p>Draco looks at him like he’s deranged, spluttering as he shakes his head. “Wha— This is what you— We have a lot of houses!” he scoffs, and Harry laughs, smacking his arse.</p><p>“It means you’re really staying for good,” Harry murmurs.</p><p>“I am,” he whispers. “And I’m going to need a place to stay,” he looks at Harry pointedly, making him snort.</p><p>“I might have a place for cheeky brats who invite themselves,” Harry says, kissing him lightly.</p><p>“That should make it easier, then,” Draco muses, suddenly a little reserved. “The whole… <i>us</i> thing.”</p><p>“This is what you choose to call it?” Harry deadpans.</p><p>Draco rolls his eyes as if Harry was the absolute worst nuisance that has ever happened to him. “Might as well get this out of the way, then,” he mutters, more to himself than Harry. “You do know I’m in love with you, yes?” he asks, his voice turning quieter with every word. “Quite madly, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Harry doesn’t want to make him cagey about it, so he doesn’t jump him right then and there. He doesn’t cry either, although he does feel it would be possible, maybe if he were a little different. Harry also doesn’t die, even though he should because no heart has ever beat as fast as his is at that moment. For the lack of anything better to do, he just kisses him, probably for the thousandth time in those last two days, and Draco sighs into it, then tries to hide his face in Harry’s neck.</p><p>“Well?” Draco nudges Harry with his nose.</p><p>“Well, what?”</p><p>His face falls a little, but Draco manages a smile as he lifts himself off the bed. “Shower?”</p><p>Harry can’t keep a straight face anymore and he bursts out laughing as he pulls Draco back. “Wait—” He snorts, kissing all over Draco’s face. “I love you. I fucking love you.”</p><p>“Say it again,” Draco whispers brokenly.</p><p>“Only if you say it first,” Harry says, brushing their noses together, and thinks about those transactions they talked about, about how Draco needed to hear him say it back, and how all tension left him the second Harry did.</p><p>It isn’t a transaction, though. It is a choice.</p><p>“I love you, Harry Potter.”</p><p>“And I love you, Draco Malfoy.”</p><p>“And I love your arse,” Draco murmurs, groping him under the sheets, “and your huge, huge cock—honestly, you should maybe give it to science,” he purrs, kissing him on the mouth. “Or don’t, I’d miss it— And your stupid smile, and your moronic face—but gods, do I hate your hair. I’ll hex it off your awful head the first chance I get.”</p><p>“You seemed to quite like <i>my head</i> when you had me on my knees,” Harry says against his lips.</p><p>“I might reconsider if we have that shower.”</p><p>“Let’s go then.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic is part of HD Erised 2020; thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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